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IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

A  Study  in  the 
Will  to  Create 


Behold  my  most  beautiful  work: 
the  souls  that  1  have  sculptured. 
These  they  cannot  destroy.  Let 
the  wood  burn!   The  soul  is  mine. 

—  Romain    Rolland  :    Colas   Breugnon 


I* 


L 


v 


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IVD 


IN  the  third  act  of  Wagner's  last  musio- 
drama  there  comes  a  flourish  of  muted 
horns,  remote,  mysterious.  In  it  sounds  the 
grandeur  of  that  quest  which  never  ends  — 
the  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail.  The  phrase  is 
repeated,  and  over  the  flower-starred  meadow 
under  the  April  sun  of  Good  Friday  morning 
comes  a  knight  in  dark  armor,  his  visor  down, 
carrying  the  holy  spear.  It  is  Parsifal.  His 
errand  is  the  errand  of  aspiring  youth  in  all 
lands  and  all  ages.  I  set  that  phrase  of 
music,  compact  with  the  poetry  and  pain  of 
idealism,  at  the  beginning  of  these  pages  in 
token  of  the  spiritual  brotherhood. 


Q-S/T»,rv 


Portrait  of  the  artist  by  himself 


IMMORTAL  YOUTH 


Give  me  that  man 
That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 
As  I  do  thee. 

—  Hamlet 


I 

THERE  was  a  humble  restaurant  on  Charles  Street 
where  cabmen  and  chauffeurs  could  be  induced 
to  tell  the  story  of  their  lives  over  a  combination- 
supper  of  lamb  chop  and  two  fried  eggs  costing  (that  was 
in  1912),  with  coffee  and  rolls,  twenty-five  cents.  Across 
the  table  one  evening  in  the  spring  of  that  year  sat  a  young 
man  about  twenty-four  years  old.  Anyone  would  have 
taken  a  second  look  at  him;  also  a  third,  a  fourth,  and  as 
many  more  as  good  manners  would  permit.  What  was  there 
about  him  that  attracted  attention?  It  was  hard  to  say.  The 
dark  eyes  with  a  somber  light  burning  in  them?  The  rugged 
features  and  swarthy  complexion  with  a  ruddy  glow  of 
health  in  each  jowl?  The  hands;  very  large  and  finely 
muscled?  (I  have  never  seen  a  more  beautiful  pair  of 
hands  on  a  human  being.)  It  was  all  of  these  things  and 
none  of  them.  Rather  it  was  the  look  of  one  with  immense 
forces  in  reserve,  bound  on  an  errand. 

Impossible  to  guess  anything  from  his  clothes:  dark 
suit,  shirt  of  gray  flannel,  and  black  knitted  tie.  Chauffeur? 
Hardly.  Well  then,  what?  Who? 

(This  is  no  isolated  personal  impression.  Wherever  he 
went  people  felt  the  same  intense  curiosity  about  him. 
Sometimes  they  stared  at  him  so  that  he  asked  me  if  his 
face  was  smudged.) 

Was  this  stranger  conversible?  He  was.  Presently  he  was 
speaking  of  the  colonial  doorways  on  Chestnut  Street  with 
a  discrimination  which  suggested  the  architect.  No.  It  ap- 


peared  that  he  was  studying  under  Mr.  Tarbell  at  the 
Boston  Museum  School  of  Fine  Arts.  Next,  that  he  came 
from  Pittsburgh.  Here  was  a  bond  in  common.  As  two 
young  Middle  Westerners  we  resented  the  social  cold 
storage  which  New  England  imposes  as  a  probationary 
period  of  acquaintance.  We  condoled.  We  fraternized.  We 
were  as  neighbors  meeting  in  a  foreign  land.  At  last  some- 
body with  whom  it  was  safe  to  scrape  acquaintance  in  the 
good  old-fashioned  Middle  Western  way  without  incurring 
suspicion  of  designs  on  one  another's  souls,  bodies,  or 
estates. 

He  climbed  Beacon  Hill  with  me  to  the  house  where  I 
lived,  carrying  a  paper  bag  which,  he  explained  modestly, 
contained  his  breakfast:  two  bananas  and  a  shredded 
wheat  biscuit. 

The  evening  was  mild.  Windows  stood  open  to  the  breeze 
which  rumpled  the  leaves  of  an  old  linden  where  it  spread 
its  boughs  in  the  brick-walled  court. 

He  promptly  took  off  his  coat,  displaying  in  the  rays 
of  a  green-shaded  student  lamp  a  pair  of  forearms  worthy 
of  the  hands  which  went  with  them.  Summer  and  winter 
he  wore  his  sleeves  rolled  above  his  elbows.  His  wrists 
resented  cuffs  as  wild  creatures  resent  cages.  He  stretched 
out  his  long  legs  on  a  cot  which  did  duty  by  the  fireplace 
as  a  sofa;  pushed  his  hair  off  his  forehead  with  both 
hands,  fingers  interlocked,  a  trick  he  had ;  and  gave  symp- 
toms of  feeling  at  home. 

Was  he  talkative?  Not  much!  Never  did  clam  yield  shell 
to  knife  edge  more  gingerly.  He  would  and  he  would  not. 
Shy,  reserved,  proud,  devoured  with  ambition,  savagely 
determined,  a  prey  to  some  misgivings,  genuinely  modest, 
and  anxious  to  talk  it  over  with  the  right  person,  but  by 
no  means  sure  who  the  right  person  was. 

On  sped  the  ambrosial  hours  of  the  spring  evening.  Bit 
by  bit  he  revealed  himself.  This  was  his  third  year  in  the 
Museum  School.  He  admired  the  technique  of  Mr.  Tarbell 


and  Mr.  Benson;  he  prized  their  instruction.  But  he  dis- 
trusted their  smoothness.  He  missed  vigor.  All  round  him 
he  saw  students  neglecting  their  own  creative  bents  to  pro- 
duce "  little  Bensons "  and  "  little  Tarbells."  Already  he 
had  resolved  to  quit  Boston  as  soon  as  his  student  days 


were  over. 


I  don't  say  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  paint  as  well  as 
they  can;  but  I  must  be  myself,  —  not  an  imitation  Tar- 
bell." 

There  had  been  two  years  in  Cornell  before  he  came  to 
Boston.  He  had  rowed  in  his  class  eight  on  Lake  Cayuga. 
Hence  that  physical  self-respect  which  betokens  the  young 
man  accustomed  unconcernedly  to  strip  in  a  college  boat- 
house  or  gymnasium.  But  to  eyes  grown  impatient  with  the 
college  athlete's  all  too  customary  intellectual  torpor  and 
social  complacency  it  was  a  holiday  to  find  this  well-made 
body,  tall,  broad  in  the  shoulder,  narrow  at  hips,  lean  and 
muscular,  housing  also  the  brain  of  the  thinker  and  the 
spirit  of  the  pioneer. 

For  the  astonishing  thing  was  to  find  a  young  man  of 
this  type  studying  to  be  a  portrait  painter  instead  of  a 
bond  salesman.  It  didn't  sound  Yankee.  I  said  so.  That 
shot  rang  the  bell.  He  began  to  open  up. 

He  was,  it  appeared,  of  German  extraction.  His  grand- 
father, who  had  wished  to  become  an  artist,  had  come  to 
America  in  a  period  when  artists  were  about  as  much  in 
request  among  us  as  concert  pianists  on  a  cattle  ranch.  He 
had  earned  his  living  as  an  architectural  sculptor.  The 
talent  plunged,  like  a  river,  underground  for  a  generation ; 
then  reappeared.  What  happened  when  this  little  fellow's 
fingers  began  to  itch  for  the  pencil  was  easy  to  guess.  The 
father  and  grandfather  put  their  heads  together  and  re- 
solved that  he  should  have  his  chance. 

It  began  to  unravel.  Now  one  understood  the  earnest- 
ness which  seemed  at  first  precocious  —  the  seemingly  cool 
indifference  to  the  call  of  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil 


which  usually  troubles  youngsters  of  twenty-four.  Here 
was  something  more  than  ambition.  Loyalty,  affection, 
gratitude,  and  family  pride.  This  boy  had  more  than  talent. 
He  had  character. 


With  this  we  are  in  the  heart  of  the  conflict  between  the 
artist  and  the  trader:  between  the  will  to  create  and  the 
will  to  possess.  It  is  the  central  conflict  of  any  age;  es- 
pecially of  this,  and  especially  in  America.  The  young  man 
comes  to  the  forks  of  the  road  where  he  must  decide 
whether  he  shall  acquire  or  create;  whether  he  shall  be  a 
business  man  or  a  prophet.  He  finds  himself  in  a  society 
which  offers  princely  rewards  to  the  commercial  career 
and  little  but  pains  and  penalties  to  those  who  would 
create.  This  youngster  was  just  learning  his  way  around 
in  the  problem.  He  recited,  with  comical  irony,  the  squalid 
platitudes  which  are  chewed  out  at  a  youth  bold  enough 
to  follow  his  creative  bent: 

'  Is  there  any  money  in  it?'  '  Oh,  of  course,  if  you  get 
to  be  a  great  painter.  But  how  do  you  know  you've  got  it  in 
you  to  be  a  great  painter?  Think  you  have?  Got  a  pretty 
good  opinion  of  yourself,  haven't  you?'  '  What  if  you 
fail?  Suppose  you  wake  up  some  morning  and  find  your- 
self a  middle-aged  man  and  a  fizzle?  Guess  you'll  wish 
then  that  you'd  stuck  to  plain  everyday  business  and 
dropped  all  this  highfalutin  about  art.'  'Yes.  I  suppose 
it's  an  easy  life:  sitting  around  and  painting  pictures. 
Pretty  soft,  eh?  Give  me  a  man's  job!'  '  Don't  you  think  it's 
a  little  rash,  my  boy,  to  risk  so  much,  when  if  you'd  settle 
down  to  a  good  business  you'd  be  sure  of  a  decent  living? 
And  what  about  marriage?  If  you  marry  you'll  have  to 
paint  pot  boilers,  and  then  what  becomes  of  your  art?  You 
might  as  well  be  a  business  man  and  be  done  with  it.  And 
if  you  don't,  is  it  worth  going  without  a  wife  and  children 

10 


in  order  to  paint  pictures,  and  so  come  at  last  to  a  lonely 
old  age?'  " 

He  knew  all  the  old  ones  by  heart.  Later  we  used  to 
recite  them  together  in  concert  like  school  children  in  the 
geography  class. 

If  you  took  the  roof  off  any  Chamber  of  Commerce  you 
would  find  half  a  dozen  retired  business  men  whose  guilty 
secret  it  is  that  they  dabble  on  the  quiet  with  paint  tubes, 
or  modeling  clay,  or  scenarios,  or  a  violin  —  the  poor, 
damned  souls  of  artists.  They  have  made  their  ' '  pile." 
House  and  lot,  wife  and  children,  motor  car  and  country 
club  —  all  these  they  have;  and  yet,  gnawing  at  their 
hearts  is  the  secret  knowledge  that  they  have  missed  the 
big  thing.  They  were  born  to  beget  children  of  the  spirit; 
they  were  born  to  create  in  art,  in  music,  in  literature,  in 
social  experiment;  and  the  ignoble  standards  of  the  society 
in  which  they  live  have  bludgeoned  and  ridiculed  them 
into  prostituting  their  highest  powers  in  the  market-place. 

In  such  relationship  did  this  young  man  stand  to  the  life 
of  his  country  and  his  time.  With  unflinching  eye  he  list- 
ened to  its  taunt: 

'Artist,  create  at  your  peril!  You  may  starve,  for  all 
me,  until  you  win  a  reputation  that  is  a  commercial  asset. 
After  which,  having  despised  you,  I  will  do  my  best  to 
corrupt  you  by  rewards  and  flatteries  gratifying  to  my  in- 
tellectual snobbery." 

Such  were  the  terms.  This  youth,  uncertain  of  his  own 
powers,  accepted  them  with  quiet  courage  and  imperturb- 
able good  humor.  Such  was  the  secret  of  that  look  of 
settled  purpose  so  intriguing  on  a  face  so  young,  and  such 
the  secret  of  the  fire  which  smouldered  behind  those  dark 
eyes.  He  was  prepared  for  a  siege.  He  was  ready  to  go  to 
the  mat. 

It  had  taken  three  generations  —  son,  sire,  and  grand- 
sire  —  to  make  this  stand  against  the  all-devouring  maw 
of  American  commercialism:  three  generations  to  conquer 

11 


and  produce  an  artist.  And  mindful  of  his  end  I  ask  myself 
whether  they  did  conquer.  We  shall  see. 

Midnight  clanked  from  the  city  clocks. 

"  Gosh!"  said  he,  "  is  it  as  late  as  that?"  He  stood  up 
and  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  against  the  red  bricks 
of  the  hearth.  "  By  the  way,  I  don't  know  your  name." 

I  told  him. 

"  Mine,"  said  he,  "  is  Fred  Demmler." 

Explaining  that  I  already  had  a  friend  named  Fred  I 
asked  if  he  had  any  objection  to  being  called  Fritz. 

"  None  whatever." 

"  Fritz  it  is,  then." 

And  Fritz  it  remained. 


II 

A  once-aristocratic  residential  street  now  reduced  to  a 
teaming  thoroughfare;  pedestal  to  Beacon  Hill;  narrow, 
ill-paved,  spattered  with  mud  to  the  second  story,  double 
row  of  tall  brick  town  houses,  where  Thackeray  and  Dick- 
ens were  once  guests,  now  placarding  "  rooms  to  let;"  as- 
sorted antique  shops  and  restaurants, —  "the  long,  un- 
lovely street  "  of  In  Memoriam,  yet  with  a  certain  wistful 
charm  in  its  decayed  gentility:  that  is  Charles  Street. 

Number  94  maintained  its  rubber  plant  on  console-table 
in  dark  vestibule.  There  was  a  contraption,  usually  out  of 
order,  by  which  you  pulled  a  bell  five  times  to  save  your- 
self the  climb  if  the  art  colony  in  the  fifth-floor-back  did 
not  answer  the  ring.  The  young  barbarians  were  usually 
out. 

It  was  a  colony  of  three:  Ralph  Heard,  small,  slender, 
fair,  escaped  from  a  western  military  academy  of  which 
he  could  tell  tales  that  froze  the  blood;  Irving  Sisson,  a 
tall,  rangy  Berkshire  Yankee,  dry  and  droll,  an  Artemus 

12 


Ward  turned  art  student  (though  known  as  '  Siss '  it 
would  never  have  occurred  to  anyone  to  call  him  "  Sissie," 
and  if  anyone  had  been  so  rash,  Sisson's  grim  reply  would 
have  been,  like  the  man  in  the  yarn,  "  Smile  when  you  say 
that"),  and  Fritz. 

Their  room  was  a  first  act  stage-set  for  an  Ameri« 
can  version  of  La  Boheme.  It  was  large,  low-ceiled,  and 
had  one  of  those  sepulchral  white  marble  mantel-pieces  of 
the  black  walnut  period.  There  was  an  iron  bed  and  a  cot, 
a  gaslight  always  out  of  kilter,  a  writing-table  strewn  with 
pipes,  unanswered  letters,  tiny  bottles  of  india  ink,  draw- 
ing pens,  crayons,  thumb  tacks,  jars  holding  bouquets  of 
paint  brushes,  and  scurrilous  caricatures  of  one  another 
scrawled  on  scraps  of  white  cardboard.  The  place  reeked 
with  that  heavenly  odor  of  paint  tubes.  By  the  window  was 
a  drawing  board  and  portfolios.  Canvases  were  stacked  in 
a  dark  corner,  faces  to  the  wall. 

Their  windows  looked  into  a  deep  courtyard  formed  by 
a  triangle  of  tall  brick  houses, —  the  rears  of  houses  on 
Charles  and  Brimmer  Streets,  the  fronts  of  three  quaint 
Italianate  red-brick  dwellings, —  all  enclosing  a  tiny 
greensward  on  which  slender  poplars  rustled  their  glossy 
leaves.  In  the  farthest  corner  of  this  court  rise  the  walls 
and  mullioned  windows  of  the  Church  of  the  Advent,  and 
on  mild  evenings  when  casements  were  open,  the  thrush- 
like voices  of  the  choir  boys  over  the  melodious  thunder 
of  great  organ  floated  up  to  these  windows.  But  I  was  never 
able  to  observe  that  it  produced  any  pietistic  tone  in  num- 
ber 94.  On  the  contrary  they  affected  to  take  a  lively  in- 
terest in  the  upper  windows  of  the  houses  opposite  and 
threatened  to  keep  a  pair  of  field  glasses  on  their  window 
sill. 

As  you  go  down  Pinckney  Street  to  the  river  you  pass  a 
break  in  the  solid  row  of  house  fronts  through  which  you 
can  look  up  and  see  the  two  windows  of  that  fifth-floor- 
back.  One  always  did  look,  and  if  they  were  lighted,  it  was 

13 


impossible  not  to  go  up;  for  in  that  room  there  was  always 
some  form  of  what  is  technically  known  as  "  trouble."  I 
never  pass  the  spot  now  without  looking  up  to  see  if  there 
is  a  light  in  those  windows.  .   .   .  They  are  dark. 


On  the  walls  of  the  room  were  two  paintings  by  Fritz; 
student  works.  One  was  a  small  landscape  sketch  — 
smouldering  red  of  a  sunset  after  rain,  burning  through 
ragged  drab  clouds  over  a  hill  country  bathed  in  violet 
mists  of  twilight.  It  was  modest,  quiet.  There  was  a  strain 
of  thoughtful  poetry  in  it.  But  the  striking  part  was  its 
sincerity.  There  was  none  of  that  striving  after  effect,  that 
ambitious  rhetoric  which  youngsters  usually  mistake  for 
eloquence:  no  attempt  to  make  the  scene  anything  more 
than  what  it  was.  The  other  was  a  portrait  study  of  a  work- 
man naked  to  the  waist.  It  was  bold,  vigorous,  masculine, 
and  overflowing  with  the  joy  of  bodily  health. 

So  far  so  good.  But  something  else  was  in  store. 

Out  of  the  canvases  stacked  against  the  wall  he  dug  a 
study  of  a  woman's  head  in  profile.  One  looked;  and  then 
looked  again.  "Who  was  she?  "  She  had  come  to  the  school 
as  a  model  for  one  week:  that  was  all  they  knew.  But  her 
secret  was  on  this  canvas.  She  must  have  been  in  her  early 
thirties.  Her  face  was  quite  serene.  It  was  the  serenity  of  a 
place  reduced  to  ashes.  Utter  resignation.  "Endure.  Life 
has  done  its  worst." 

By  what  divination  had  this  youngster  of  twenty-four 
guessed  a  secret  like  that?  From  that  moment  it  was  clear 
to  me  that  he  was  a  portrait  painter. 

'  What,"  I  asked,  "  is  that  little  star  in  the  lower  corner 
of  the  canvas?  " 

'That?  Oh,"  he  explained  diffidently,  "that  is  put  on 
pictures  which  the  school  saves  for  its  exhibition." 

14 


Ill 

That  golden  Spring!  Clandestine  dinners  at  an  obscure 
French  cafe  in  an  obscure  court,  where  one  went  because, 
though  the  food  was  something  less  than  so-so,  the  sauces 
were  exotic;  "clandestine"  because,  behind  closed  shut- 
ters, they  served  vin  ordinaire  without  a  license.  Our  par- 
ties, to  the  disgust  of  Jacques,  were  teetotal,  the  real  at- 
traction being  that  the  joint  might  be  pinched  any  minute. 

On  May  afternoons  in  the  Fenway,  disguised  in  a  base- 
ball suit  of  gray  flannel,  Fritz  rejoiced  as  a  strong  man  to 
swat  the  pill.  The  pill  swatted  him  one  day,  broke  his 
thumb,  and  in  the  end  he  had  to  have  it  rebroken  and  reset 
under  ether.  His  first  words  on  coming  to  were:  "Give  me 
my  paint  box."  All  the  nurses  of  his  ward  fell  for  him 
with  a  loud  crash.  In  all  innocence  he  told  what  a  lot  of 
extra  trouble  they  went  to  for  him.  His  friends  smiled  in 
their  sleeves. 

As  often  as  there  was  a  play  of  Shaw  or  Ibsen  or  Gals- 
worthy or  Maeterlinck  or  Shakespeare  or  Synge  there  were 
expeditions  to  peanut  heaven.  Knoblauch's  Kismet  hap- 
pened along  and  Fritz  appropriated  the  cry:  "Alms!  for 
the  love  of  Allah"  for  occasions  choicely  inappropriate. 

When  a  fine  May  morning  of  blue  and  gold  came  wing- 
ing over  the  city  on  the  northwest  wind  he  would  get  up 
extra  early,  hustle  through  his  shave  and  cold  tubbing  and 
join  me  in  the  tramp  over  Beacon  Hill,  across  the  Common, 
and  down  into  Newspaper  Row  for  breakfast  at  the  cele- 
brated Spa.  On  the  way  up  Chestnut  Street,  where  the 
Brahmin  pundits  live,  the  favorite  sport  was  to  crack  jokes 
at  the  expense  of  the  sources  of  income  which  sustained 
these  Georgian  fronts  and  mahogany-and-brocade  inte- 
riors: here,  a  famous  brand  of  ale;  there,  notorious  indus- 
trial nose-grinding  in  Fall  River  spinning  mills  —  merry 
clank  of  dividend  skeleton  in  genteel  closet  ...  On  the 
Common,  jocund  morning,  fresh  green  of  turf  and  tree, 

15 


sweet  breath  of  the  earth;  sunshine,  bird-song,  youth,  .  .  . 
Spring! 

And  on  a  stool  at  the  Spa,  Fritz's  provoking  grin  and  sly 
ba  nter  of  a  waitress  who,  after  a  good  look  at  him,  would 
conclude  that  if  she  was  being  kidded  she  liked  it  and  was 
cheerfully  ready  for  more.  After  which  breakfast  he 
trudged  the  mile  and  a  half  to  the  Art  Museum  to  see  the 
morning  and  to  save  his  father  carfares. 


It  appeared  that  he  was  a  walker,  and  not  afraid  of  rain. 
He  proved  it.  On  a  May  evening  brewing  thunder  we  did  a 
dissolving  view  out  of  the  city  on  a  train  for  Cape  Ann. 
At  the  end  of  the  shore  road  around  the  Cape  awaited 
lodgings  at  an  inn  and  a  midnight  supper.  At  Gloucester  he 
was  introduced  to  one  of  Wonson's  clam  chowders  and  we 
set  off  at  dusk. 

That  evening  came  the  first  inkling  of  his  larger  pur- 
pose—  his  higher  than  personal  ambition:  what  he  would 
paint  after  his  portraits  assured  him  a  livelihood.  Some- 
thing was  said  about  Pittsburgh  and  the  mills. 

'They  ought  to  be  painted,"  said  he,  "exactly  as  they 
are.  Not  sentimentalized  like  the  magazine  covers;  not 
made  romantic,  as  Joseph  Pennell  has  made  them;  but 
painted  in  all  their  horror.  Some  day.  I  don't  know  enough 
yet." 

Thunder  had  been  muttering  distantly.  The  night  had 
turned  pitch  black.  There  were  sullen  flashes,  and  drops 
began  to  patter.  Would  he  be  for  turning  back?  Not  he! 
Then  the  storm  came  crashing  and  pelting  across  the  gran- 
ite moors  of  the  Cape.  Gorgeous  flashes  which  flushed  the 
winding  tidal  inlets  and  the  rocky  hills  a  brilliant  rose 
pink.  Flash!  Crash!  Swish  went  the  rain.  And  the  harder  it 
stormed  the  better  he  liked  it.  He  strode  along  intoxicated 
with  color  and  sound. 

16 


Near  Annisquam  is  a  double  shade-row  of  willows  over- 
arching the  road.  Not  far  beyond,  yellow  lamplight  was 
streaming  from  the  windows  of  a  tiny  cottage.  Wading 
knee-deep  in  wet  grass  we  knocked. 

Now  it  is  a  complicated  process  explaining  to  two  aged 
New  England  spinsters  on  a  lonely  road  at  nine  o'clock  of 
a  stormy  night  what  your  errand  is,  especially  when  you 
haven't  any.  They  listened;  lifted  the  lamp  on  us  for  an 
inspection  —  particularly  on  Fritz;  one  soon  got  used  to 
seeing  people  inspect  him  furtively  —  and  invited  us  in. 

"Walkin'  round  the  Cape  to  Rockport,  be  ye?  And  in 
the  rain?  For  the  fun  of  it!  Well,  come  in  and  set  down. 
I'd  like  to  get  a  good  look  at  someone  who'd  walk  to  Rock- 
port  in  the  rain  for  the  fun  of  it.  Set  down,  young  gentle- 


men." 


We  set.  They  were  sisters.  One  was  small  and  timid: 
she  was  of  the  sort  that  remain  naive  to  the  end.  The  other 
was  tall,  angular  and  sardonic,  with  a  mother  wit  smacking 
of  the  soil  and  the  salt  water.  She  addressed  herself  to 
Fritz: 

'You  ain't  an  escaped  murderer,  be  ye?" 

Fritz  cackled  lustily. 

"  How  do  you  know  I'm  not?"  said  he. 

"  You  look  like  that  fella  who's  on  trial  in  Boston  now. 
I  see  his  pictures  in  the  paper  .  .  .  and  you  come  knockin' 
on  the  door  at  dead  o'  night  in  a  thunder  squall  like  in  a 
story  book." 

'Would  you  say  I  looked  like  a  murderer?"  inquired 
Fritz  with  relish. 

'  You  might  look  worse  'n  him,"  replied  our  free-speech 
hostess.  "  By  his  pictures  he's  a  good-lookin'  fella.  I  says 
to  Saide  whiles  we  was  weedin'  garden  this  morning,  't 
wouldn't  be  safe  to  let  him  go  now,  for  half  the  women 
in  New  England  are  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  him  —  he's 
been  that  advertised."  She  eyed  us  with  her  sardonic  grin. 
I  looked  at  Fritz.  He  was  blushing. 

17 


To  her  shrewd  Yankee  wits  we  were  clearly  two  luna- 
tics, but  harmless;  and  the  object  was  to  extract  as  much 
entertainment  from  us  as  the  law  allowed.  Such  was  the 
tone  of  her  farewell,  half  an  hour  later. 

"  If  anyone  asks  who  was  here,"  said  she,  "  I'll  tell  them 
it  was  two  young  fellas  walkin'  to  Rockport  in  the  rain  for 
the  fun  of  it.  — And  then  they'll  think  Vm  one!" 

Past  midnight,  stumping  dog-tired  into  the  inn;  cold 
meat  and  bread,  ravenously  devoured;  bed,  and  the  sleep 
of  the  just. 

.  .  .  Morning;  and  such  a  morning  as  never  was.  Quite 
forgetting  to  dress,  Fritz  lost  himself  staring  out  of  the  open 
window  at  the  quaint  harbor,  the  fishing  fleet,  the  blue  bay 
and  the  gaunt  headlands  until  it  was  suggested  to  him  that 
passers  by  might  be  enjoying  him  as  much  as  he  was  enjoy- 
ing the  morning. 

There  was  an  hour  for  soaking  it  in  before  the  train  left 
for  the  city,  and  soak  it  in  he  did.  A  sea  of  pale  blue,  like 
molten  glass,  untroubled  by  a  breeze;  sky  the  deep  blue 
of  a  morning  after  storms;  air  sweet  with  the  scent  of  blos- 
soming orchards  and  dooryard  lilacs  and  tart  with  the  tang 
of  salt  brine;  merry  twitter  of  robins;  lazy  splash  of  surf; 
the  long  headlands  tapering  down  to  the  sea;  the  squat 
white  tower  of  Straitsmouth  light  solitary  on  its  rocky 
islet,  "  and  overhead  the  lovely  skies  of  May." 

In  the  midst  of  it  stood  a  young  artist,  dumb  with  de- 
light. His  eyes  drank. 

Oh  brethren  of  the  possessing  class,  ye  who  must  own 
this  and  that  before  you  can  enjoy,  this  world  can  never 
give  the  bliss  for  which  ye  sigh.  That  pilgrimage  cost  less 
than  $3.00  per. 

Evening.  Above  the  tiny  grass-plat  and  spindling  poplars 
in  Mount  Vernon  Square  floats  the  magic  of  a  night  in  mid- 
June.  The  windows  of  the  fifth-floor-back  in  94  Charles 

18 


are  lighted  and  open  to  the  breeze.  From  those  of  the  Ad- 
vent come  gusts  of  music, —  rumbles  of  organ  and  the  fresh 
voices  of  boys:  choir  rehearsal.  But  I  think  the  sounds 
which  float  down  from  the  windows  of  94  are  more  in  tune 
with  the  night:  peal  after  peal  of  infectious  laughter.  It 
was  clear  to  the  meanest  order  of  intellect  that  Sisson  was 
telling  stories  which  were  more  joyous  than  dutiful:  also 
that  he  had  Fritz  going.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  laugh. 

A  belated  delivery  man,  basket  on  arm,  pauses  beside 
me  to  listen  and  grin. 

"  I  bet  that  was  a  good  one,"  says  he.  "  Say,  but  can't 
that  guy  laugh!" 


IV 

In  the  autumn  he  reappeared  bronzed  and  husky  from  a 
summer  on  a  Pennsylvania  farm.  That  spring  had  been  the 
overture.  Now  the  curtain  rose.  How  can  my  thin  piano 
score  reproduce  that  richly  glowing  orchestration? 

Gradually  the  artist  in  him  unfolded.  It  was  like  a 
process  of  nature  —  slow,  silent,  sure.  In  speech  he  was 
inarticulate.  The  spoken  word  was  not  his  trade;  he  knew 
it,  and  the  knowledge  made  him  self-conscious.  But  give 
him  a  brush  and  he  found  tongue.  His  silences  were  formid- 
able. "The  better  to  eat  you  with,  my  dear!"  Nothing  es- 
caped him.  With  a  secret,  fierce  impetuosity  he  was  storing 
away  impressions:  glances,  gestures,  lines  of  faces,  colors, 
inflections  of  voices,  landscapes,  phrases,  incidents,  ideas: 
he  soaked  them  in  like  a  thirsty  sponge.  Everything  was 
fish  that  came  to  his  net.  What  sometimes  looked  like  an 
intellectual  torpor  was  the  boa  constrictor  digesting  the 
zebra  whole.  I  doubt  if  he  realized  the  tremendous  vitality 
of  his  creative  instinct.  He  went  about  it  as  a  wild  creature 
roams  the  forest  for  its  food :  it  was  a  law  of  his  being.  On 
tramping  trips  he  would  stalk  miles  in  silence;  stopping 

19 


stock  still  until  he  had  taken  in  the  scarlet-and-gold  maple 
grove  in  a  purple  autumn  mist;  or  a  mossy  wood  pile  under 
pines;  or  the  rolling  diversity  of  hill  and  woodland.  No 
apologies;  no  explanations.   Business. 

It  was  soon  clear  that  this  young  man  knew  exactly  what 
he  wanted  and  that  he  intended  to  get  it.  There  was  a  kind 
of  animal  sagacity  about  his  mind  which  told  it  what  food 
to  accept  and  what  to  reject. 

"  Kiinstler,"  says  Goethe,  "  rede  nicht.  Bildel  "  (Artist, 
don't  talk.  Create!)  Fritz  lived  this  precept.  He  would  do 
first,  and  then  let  the  doing  speak  for  itself.  When  a  young 
man  is  so  determined  to  do  something  that  he  cannot  be 
got  to  talk  about  it,  you  may  consider  the  thing  as  good 
as  done.  Here  was  a  hungry  mind,  seeking  what  it  might 
devour  and  devouring  it.  All  that  provender  was  being 
assimilated.  It  could  not  evaporate  in  talk,  for  Fritz  was 
no  talker.  It  had  to  be  expressed  somehow  and  that  some- 
how would  have  to  be  with  a  brush.  .  .  .  Oh,  he  came  and 
went  disguised  in  the  business  suit  of  a  young  man  dedi- 
cated to  the  career  of  buying  in  the  cheapest  market  and 
selling  in  the  dearest:  pleasant,  friendly,  a  prodigious 
eater,  a  sound  sleeper,  invincibly  healthy, —  and  with  only 
that  silent  intentness  of  eye  to  betray  the  secret  of  the 
creative  power  he  carried  within  him. 

But  that  winter  it  was  surprised  out  of  him. 

Fred  Middleton,  then  twenty-seven  years  old,  six  years 
out  of  Harvard  College,  thoroughly  conversant  with  the 
ethics  of  modern  business,  was  preparing  to  de-class  him- 
self and  earn  an  honest  living  by  manual  labor  on  the 
land  —  a  farmer,  and  not  a  "gentleman  farmer."  With 
mock  solemnity  Fritz  was  commissioned  to  do  a  portrait 
of  Fred.  The  transaction  was  conducted  on  a  basis  of  "  free 
agreement "  which  would  have  satisfied  even  Peter  Kropot- 
kin.  The  painter  was  to  do  it  any  way  he  chose — absolute 
free  speech.  The  sitter  was  to  choose  any  clothes  he  liked, 
to  sit  till  he  was  tired,  and  stretch  when  he  pleased.  The 

20 


purchaser  was  to  pay  what  he  was  able.  So  everybody  was 
happy,  being  free. 

In  the  third  floor  back  on  Pinckney  Street  (it  had  north 
light)  decks  were  cleared  for  action:  two  rickety  orange 
boxes  covered  with  a  steamer  rug  did  duty  as  a  dais.  With 
paint  box,  easel  and  palette  Fritz  came  down  from  Exeter 
where  he  had  just  finished  a  portrait  of  an  old  lady. 

There  was  a  glowing  fire  in  the  grate;  a  bluster  of  March 
winds  in  the  brick  court;  the  roar  of  blast  through  the 
antlers  of  the  old  linden;  waning  light  of  Saturday  and 
Sunday  afternoons;  pages  of  Nietzsche's  epigrams  and  of 
Jean-Christophe  read  aloud;  pauses  to  rest  and  consult. 

Fritz  always  noticed  people's  hands.  He  found  almost 
as  much  character  in  them  as  in  faces.  He  admired  the 
hands  in  Rodin's  work,  especially  that  of  the  sculptor  in 
his  Pygmalion: — "the  tenderness  of  that  hand! "  he  said. 
Fred's  large  hands  interested  him.  The  right  one  he  caught 
hot  off  the  bat.  The  left  caused  him  no  end  of  trouble. 
Finally  one  day  he  threw  down  his  brush  and  exclaimed: 

"  I've  watched  that  left  hand  come  down  to  rest  on  that 
leg  a  dozen  times.  I've  tried  everything  else  and  now  I'm 
going  to  paint  it  exactly  as  it  is.  After  all,  it  is  a  hand." 

'  Thank  you;  thank  you!"  replied  Fred,  bowing  suavely. 
'  People  usually  refer  to  it  as  a  ham.  A  photographer  once 
told  me  that  I  had  a  mitt  like  an  elephant's  hoof." 


And  Fritz  painted.  And  the  secret  was  out.  It  came  out 
in  two  installments:  the  first,  when  he  was  spreading  on 
canvas  a  life  history  of  Fred  Middleton  compressed  into 
terms  of  a  rugged  face  and  two  large  hands;  the  second 
came  three  years  later.  Fred  had  remarked,  after  one  of 
his  sittings,  that  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  his  face 
straight  at  some  of  the  grimaces  Fritz  made  while  paint- 

21 


ing.  The  precaution  was  needless.  If  he  had  laughed  out- 
right it  is  doubtful  if  Fritz  would  have  noticed  it. 

Most  of  the  time  while  he  was  painting  the  portrait  of 
me,  three  years  later,  I  was  absorbed  in  my  own  work  and 
paid  no  attention  to  him.  But  one  afternoon  when  my 
wheels  refused  to  grind  I  took  a  holiday  and  watched  him 
out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye  .   .   . 

It  was  as  if  some  one  you  supposed  you  knew  all  about 
had  removed  a  set  of  false  whiskers  and  spoken  in  his  nat- 
ural voice.  Was  this  our  shy,  silent  Fritz?  Why,  the  impu- 
dence of  him !  The  shameless  way  he  peered  into  the  secret 
places  of  a  face!  "See  here,  young  gentleman,  who  gave 
you  permission  to  rummage  through  that  trunkful  of  old 
letters?" 

Here  at  last  was  Fritz,  on  his  native  heath,  naked  and 
unashamed,  talking  his  own  language  and,  confident  of  its 
not  being  understood,  indulging  in  the  most  appalling 
candor. 

What's  sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the  gander. 
While  he  pried  into  my  secrets  I  pried  into  his.  I  amused 
myself  by  painting  a  portrait  of  Fritz  painting.  Some  day 
I  meant  to  show  it  to  him  .   .   .   But  here  it  is: 

;'  He  may  not  be  able  to  talk  with  his  tongue.  But  give 
him  his  brushes  and  his  whole  body  talks.  No  gymnastics: 
but  his  whole  being  aquiver.  Silent,  but  his  arms,  fingers, 
head,  shoulders  make  animated  dumb  show.  He  is  convers- 
ing delightedly  with  himself  over  his  work.  He  has  forgot- 
ten time  and  place.  Intense  mental  concentration,  and  nerv- 
ous energy.  He  squints,  grimaces,  stoops  and  looks  at  his 
canvas  wrong-side  up.  He  sets  his  teeth,  compresses  lips, 
squares  his  shoulders, —  lost  in  his  work.  He  mixes  colors 
with  minute  particularity.  Sometimes  he  dabs  with  a  tiny 
brush,  a  peck  here,  a  peck  there,  like  a  dainty  bird.  Again 
he  paints  in  sweeping  flourishes,  beating  a  kind  of  raptur- 
ous rhythm  with  his  brush,  gesturing  with  it  between 
strokes,    like    an    orchestral    conductor    hewing    out    the 

22 


rhythms  of  a  symphony  .  .  .  He  pauses;  he  hangs  limp 
over  his  palette,  considering  ...  Or  he  gives  a  joyous 
little  bounce  in  his  chair  as  the  decision  comes.  His  hands 
and  forearms,  strong  and  supple,  talk  in  every  sinew. 
Fingers  mobile,  infinitely  expressive:  they  thumb  the 
brush;  turn  its  handle  in  a  ruminating  pause;  reflect  a  sud- 
den resolution  in  the  stiffening  of  tendons  .   .   . 

"  And  above  all  this  quiet  animation  and  silent  dexterity 
is  the  regnant,  gallant  head  with  dark  eyes  flashing  mast- 
ery; the  mouth  set  with  purpose;  the  thick  mass  of  shining 
black  hair  breaking  into  a  wave  as  it  falls  away  from  the 
clear  forehead  —  and  all  in  complete  self-forgetfulness, 
the  oblivion  of  the  artist  rapt  in  the  joy  of  creating." 

It  was  quite  simple.  Here  was  a  soul  which  dwelt  in  a 
prison  of  shyness.  Painting  unlocked  the  door.  Out  it 
rushed.  Free.  It  could  be  itself  at  last.  No  fears;  no  con- 
cealments. Liberty! 

That  was  all  very  well  for  Fritz,  but  how  about  his  sit- 
ter? About  the  time  the  sitter  sensed  what  was  going  on  he 
felt  moved  to  exclaim: 

"Just  a  moment,  Fritz.  Don't  you  think  you  are  getting 
a  trifle  familiar?" 

I  heard  one  of  his  painter  friends,  eyeing  a  canvas  which 
Fritz  had  just  finished,  mutter, 

'  There  is  some  marvelous  subtlety  about  that  mind." 

Already  his  knack  of  guessing  people  was  damnable. 
He  played  no  favorites.  "  I  am  going  to  paint  what  I  see 
or  I  am  not  going  to  paint  at  all."  If  what  he  saw  was 
fatuous,  he  told  it  with  the  disconcerting  gusto  of  a  child; 
if  it  was  sad,  he  told  it  (as  in  that  student  portrait)  so  as 
to  produce  a  burning  pressure  behind  the  eyelids;  if  it  was 
strong  and  gentle,  he  told  it  (as  in  the  portrait  of  the 
young  farmer)  so  as  to  kindle  respect  and  affection.  Often 
all  this  was  unconscious.  Again  he  knew  exactly  what  he 
was  doing  and  took  a  wicked  relish  in  it.  Of  some  wealthies 
whom  he  was  painting  he  confided  with  a  grin: 

23 


"  Of  course  they  patronize  me  within  an  inch  of  my  life, 
but  I  sometimes  wonder  what  would  happen  if  they 
knew  .  .  ." 

Perhaps  he  was  not  so  unsophisticated  as  advertised  in 
the  catalogue.  He  helped  himself  pretty  generously  out  of 
the  popular  supposition  that  an  artist  is  a  mild  form  of 
lunatic.  He  made  good  use  of  his  talent  for  silence.  But 
what  ears  and  eyes!  Nobody  who  had  seen  him  paint  could 
ever  feel  quite  safe  with  him  again. 


It  happened  that  Alexander  James  was  studying  at  the 
Museum  School.  That  the  son  of  ''the  psychologist  who 
made  psychology  read  like  a  novel"  and  the  nephew  of 
"  the  novelist  who  made  a  novel  read  like  psychology " 
should  have  identified  Fritz's  talent  the  first  crack  out  of 
the  box  was  about  the  least  surprising  thing  in  the  world. 
The  two  young  painters  proceeded  to  form  an  offensive 
and  defensive  alliance.  Where  one  was,  there  was  the  other 
also;  on  the  baseball  field,  on  painting  expeditions,  on  pil- 
grimages in  early  spring  into  New  Hampshire  to  climb 
Chocorua,  and  on  occasional  voyages  into  the  land  of 
pretty  girls.  It  was  good  to  see  the  pair  together:  two  thor- 
oughbreds. Both  athletes,  both  artists,  one  dark,  the  other 
fair,  both  about  the  same  height  and  build.  People  would 
turn  to  look  after  them  as  they  passed  with  an  expression 
of  "  Wonder  who  they  are.  Somebody  out  of  the  ordinary." 

Alexander  was  wont  to  disguise  his  frank  admiration 
of  Fritz  behind  a  smoke  screen  of  banter.  This  Fritz  would 
suffer  with  an  amused  grin  and  the  massive  calm  of  a 
mastiff,  for  he  had  no  such  arsenal  of  repartee  as  this 
young  gentleman  from  the  household  of  a  Harvard  profes- 
sor; but  once  in  a  while  he  would  land  a  retort  so  neat  as 
to  set  Alexander  spinning.  It  did  not  take  the  Cambridge 

24 


youth  long  to  discover  the  use  Fritz  made  of  his  talent  for 
silence  and  it  was  his  delight  to  give  him  away  in  his  game 
of  holding  his  tongue  the  better  to  use  his  eyes, —  as  Alex- 
ander said:  "the  wise  old  Bruin!" 

In  Massachusetts  the  anniversary  of  the  battle  of  Lex- 
ington, April  19,  is  a  holiday.  It  was  1913.  In  the  parlor 
of  an  inn  whose  windows  look  northward  across  the  snug 
haven  of  Rockport  to  the  surf-scoured  ledges  of  Pigeon 
Cove  I  was  seated  at  a  piano,  back  to  the  door,  painfully 
dissecting  a  score  of  Tristan. 

The  door  opened  and  a  voice  exclaimed,  "Good  Lord!" 

It  was  Fritz.  With  him  was  Alexander  James.  Both  were 
half  ossified  with  the  chill  of  the  mid-April  afternoon,  for 
they  had  been  painting  on  the  shore  down  towards  Straits- 
mouth. 

General  astonishment.  The  two  expeditions  had  origi- 
nated quite  independently.  It  was  whimsically  like  those 
momentous  chance  encounters  in  picturesque  spots  which 
abound  in  the  novels  of  Alexander's  uncle  Henry;  but  the 
novelist,  be  it  noted,  doesn't  always  save  these  coincidences 
from  a  slightly  fishy  sound  which  was  totally  wanting  in 
this. 

They  thawed  themselves  out  and  exhibited  their  sketches. 
Fritz  had,  as  usual,  gone  after  it  and  got  it  —  a  spirited 
bit:  druidical  heaps  of  pink  granite  boulders  against  dash- 
ing surf:  dazzling  white  of  foam-crest  on  deep  blue. 

There  was  a  jolly  supper  in  the  brown-walled  dining 
room  (it  had  been  the  kitchen  of  an  eighteenth  century 
farm  house)  which  the  last  rays  of  the  spring  sun  flooded 
with  red  golden  light;  the  two  painters  comparing  notes 
on  the  exhibitions  of  the  Scandinavians  and  the  Ten 
Americans. 

They  departed  for  a  home-talent  play  at  a  local  hall  in 
a  frame  of  mind  which  boded  no  good  for  the  perform- 
ance.  .   .   .  About  eleven  o'clock  they  breezed  in  with  the 

25 


announcement  that  there  was  a  Northwest  wind  (the  New 
England  wind  which  sweeps  the  sky  cloudless  blue),  a  full 
moon  and  a  dashing  sea ;  and  that  to  go  to  bed  was  a  crime. 
Away,  then,  for  Land's  End,  along  shore  paths  at  the  edge 
of  grassy  cliffs,  by  bushy  lanes,  over  meadows,  moors, 
popple  beaches  and  brooks,  across  the  moon-blanched  land 
beside  the  moon-burnished  sea.  Straitsmouth  Light  burned 
a  yellow  spark.  The  twin  lights  on  Thatcher's  Island  shone 
weird  blue  in  their  tall  towers.  Low  on  the  rim  of  sky  and 
sea  hung  gigantic  masses  of  cloud  whitened  by  the  bluish 
pallor  of  the  moon.  In  the  marsh  bottoms  frogs  cheeped 
their  shrill  sweet  song  of  spring:  the  northwester  bellowed 
through  the  willow  twigs  .  .  .  mournful  pour  of  surf 
.  .  .  splendor  of  spring  moon  .  .  .  the  lonely  moor  .  .  . 
the  steadfast  light-house  flames  .  .  .  the  white  walls  and 
gray  roofs  of  the  sleeping  town  .  .   . 

At  one  in  the  morning,  tip-toeing  into  the  dining  room, 
we  devoured  a  plate  of  bread  and  butter  left  for  late 
comers.  Both  of  them  were  too  genuine  artists  to  comment 
on  what  we  had  seen. 


It  is  a  lovely  afternoon  of  June,  1914,  at  the  pier  of  the 
Allan  Line  steamships  in  Charlestown.  The  ship  is  the  old 
Nubian,  safe  and  slow,  saloon  upholstered  in  plush  of 
maple  sugar  brown,  brass  oil  lamps  swinging  in  gimbles 
as  befitted  a  smart  packet  of  the  late  80's.  Boston  to 
Glasgow.  Scotland  swarmed  the  wharf. 

Mixed  in  was  an  artists'  colony.  For  that  was  the  great 
day.  Fritz  and  Alexander  were  sailing  for  a  year's  study 
abroad:  London,  Paris,  Munich.  The  gang  which  came  to 
see  them  off  were  dramatis  personae  of  Act  II  of  La 
Boheme:  four  painters,  an  interior  decorator,  an  illustra- 
trator,  assorted  scribblers,  and  a  Scottish  chieftain  (lord 

26 


of  an  ancient  clan,  hero  of  a  hundred  skin-of-your-teeth 
escapes,  veteran  of  Polish  revolutionary  escapades,  un- 
crowned king  of  an  African  tribe:  as  raconteur  he  had  his 
rival,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  lashed  to  the  bed).  This 
day  he  strode  resplendent  in  plaid  knee  socks,  plaid  kilt, 
a  murderous  Hieland  dirk  swung  at  his  hip,  short  jacket 
the  breast  of  which  blazed  with  medals,  and  long  black 
locks  caught  up  under  a  cap.  As  he  crossed  the  wharf 
planking  at  a  stride  like  deer-stalking  over  his  native 
crags,  the  rest  of  us  half  expected  the  assembled  Scots  to 
prostrate  themselves  and  knock  foreheads  on  flooring  in 
fealty.  He  did  excite  some  attention.  Sisson  said  —  well, 
no  matter  what  Sisson  said.* 

It  was  a  great  occasion.  Fritz,  his  black  eyes  snapping 
with  excitement,  came  up  the  gang  plank  from  deck  to 
wharf  to  be  pounced  on  by  a  jolly  crew.  He  was  outwardly 
cool,  but  his  engines  were  racing.  After  him  came  Alex- 
ander James.  Pounce  number  two.  Showers  of  rice  clat- 
tered on  a  bridal  pair  close  by,  but  their  festival  was  tame 
compared  to  this.  To  meet  Henry  James  and  John  Sargent 
in  London:  to  study  in  Paris  and  Munich:  to  see  the  great 
galleries.  They  were  embarking  on  greater  seas  than  the 
Atlantic.  This  was  the  great  day,  the  great  hour,  and  with  a 
troop  of  friends  rejoicing  in  their  good  fortune  to  sweeten 
it  .  .  .  Away  to  the  land  of  heart's  desire  .  .  .  Romance 
.  .  .  Bohemia  .   .  .  Europe. 

"  0  Youth,  and  the  days  that  were!  " 

From  the  caplog  at  the  pier  head  as  the  Nubian  swung 
into  midstream  of  the  Charles,  the  band  of  pariahs  bawled 
ribald  farewells  and  wrung  out  handkerchiefs  in  mock 

*  After  all,  why  not  ?  Some  one  was  explaining  that  the  chief  (who 
was  a  genuinely  fine  fellow)  had  come  to  America  to  raise  funds  for  his 
clan.  Sisson  said  :  "  He'll  be  lucky  if  he  gets  back  to  Scotland  with  his 
kilt." 

27 


tears.  Alexander  James,  the  Clive  Newcome  of  the  ad- 
venture, leaned  on  the  teakwood  rail,  waving  his  straw 
hat;  and  Fritz,  the  "J.  J."  of  the  story,  sat  on  the  lowest 
ratline  of  the  shrouds,  feet  on  rail,  pretending  to  weep  into 
his  hat  and  then  emptying  the  brine  into  the  brine. 

The  ship's  side,  black  hull  and  white  upperworks,  took 
a  burnishing  from  the  late  afternoon  sun.  Under  the  gaiety 
there  was  a  queer  feeling.  There,  divided  from  us  by  a 
hundred  yards  of  harbor  water,  were  the  two  friends  with 
whom  we  had  just  shaken  hands,  and  the  strip  between 
was  widening,  would  widen  to  an  ocean.  They  stood  out 
amid  the  throng  of  passengers  as  distinct  as  though  they 
had  been  the  only  souls  aboard.  They  waved:  we  waved. 
As  the  vessel  straightened  away  in  her  course  they  imi- 
tated our  several  gestures  to  signify  personal  farewells: 
it  was  thought  and  done  impromptu.  And  long  after  their 
figures  grew  indistinct  as  the  ship  lessened  down  the  harbor 
lane  between  elbowing  wharves  and  the  piled  masses  of 
city  towers  and  spires,  there  were  gleams  of  two  white 
straw  hats  which  we  knew  .   .   . 

All  the  same,  it  was  a  trifle  too  much  like  a  dress  re- 
hearsal for  death. 


Then,  in  less  than  six  weeks,  a  world  in  tumult.  Con- 
tinental ateliers  were  emptying  their  students  on  the  battle- 
field. Fritz,  who  was  in  England,  prudently  kept  out  of 
the  rush  homeward  and  made  the  most  of  his  few  weeks. 

He  was  in  Downing  Street  in  front  of  that  dingy  Geor- 
gian fagade  the  night  the  British  Cabinet  sat  waiting  for 
Germany's  reply  to  their  ultimatum. 

"'  It  gave  one  an  odd  feeling,"  said  he,  "  to  realize  that 
behind  those  drawn  shades  sat  men  who  were  settling 
the  question  of  life  or  death  for  hundreds  of  thousands 

28 


of  their  fellow  creatures.  The  crowd  cheered.  I  did  not." 
Of  Henry  James  he  saw  comparatively  little,  for  the 
novelist  was  in  poor  health,  but  he  was  immensely  stimu- 
lated by  the  little  he  did  see,  for  beginning  with  Roderick 
Hudson  he  had  been  quick  to  discover  how  much  this  mas- 
ter of  style  had  to  teach  a  painter  of  what  he  had  himself 
learned  from  painters. 

There  was  a  memorable  session  with  Mr.  Sargent  in  his 
London  studio.  Mr.  Sargent  happened  just  then  to  be  doing 
a  portrait  of  Lord  Curzon,  and  Fritz  related  with  wicked 
glee  (imitating  Mr.  Sargent  as  he  backed  away  from  his 
easel)  how  the  painter  had  remarked: 

"  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind  how  to  finish  it.  If  I  can't 
get  enough  interest  out  of  the  face,  I'll  put  a  scarlet  coat 
on  him. 

It  was  late  in  October  before  he  sailed  for  home,  as  one 
of  a  handful  of  passengers  on  a  freighter.  The  voyage  was 
one  of  continuous  foul  weather  which,  to  the  mystification 
of  the  others,  was  vastly  to  the  delight  of  Fritz.  He  lived 
on  deck,  begrudging  time  to  sleep.  He  fraternized  with  the 
crew.  One  day  of  thin  drizzle  and  greasy  swells,  getting 
into  old  togs,  he  helped  the  deck-hands  greatly  to  their 
satisfaction  and  somewhat  to  the  scandal  of  the  other 
passengers,  shovel  coal  down  a  hatch. 

"They  didn't  think  I'd  stick  it  through,"  said  he. 
•    After  that  he  was  one  of  them. 


VI 

He  had  chosen  to  live  in  Pittsburgh,  partly  because  it 
was  his  home  and  partly  because  it  promised  him  more 
elbow  room. 

"  I  want  to  paint,"  said  he,  "  and  I  do  not  want  to  have 
to  play  social  politics  in  order  to  get  commissions,  as  I 

29 


am  afraid  I  would  have  to  do  in  Boston.  Besides,  in  Pitts- 
burgh, there  are  fewer  painters  to  influence  me.  I  stand 
more  chance  of  being  myself." 

Alexander  James  said  it  was  brutal  of  Fritz  to  go  away 
to  Pittsburgh.  The  rest  of  the  colony  agreed.  But  it  became 
Fritz's  delight  to  swoop  down  on  us  in  Boston  unannounced. 

...  It  is  late  in  a  wild  night  of  mid-winter,  a  furious 
gale  of  wind  and  snow  whipping  across  the  gables  and 
chimney  stacks  of  Beacon  Hill:  a  night  for  tucking  oneself 
up  in  a  wing  chair  beside  a  fire  with  a  book  and  reading 
lamp,  roar  of  storm  in  ears.   .   . 

A  rap  sounds  on  the  door. 

"Come!" 

The  rap  is  repeated. 

"Come  in!" 

The  door  opens  and  framed  in  its  blackness  stands 
Fritz. 

With  him  is  Ralph  Heard  in  a  state  of  jubilation. 

"  You  remember,"  says  he,  "  I  told  you  only  two  days 
ago  that  I  sort  of  had  a  hunch  that  Fritz  might  be  dropping 
in  on  us  most  any  time  now?  Well,  to-night  I  was  sitting 
at  my  writing-table,  when  the  door  opened  with  a  bang. 
I  thought,  without  looking  around,  'That  is  the  way  Fritz 
opens  a  door.'  And  there  was  Fritz." 

His  one  emotional  luxury  was  this  enjoyment  of  watch- 
ing his  friends  fall  all  over  their  own  feet  in  the  glad 
surprise  of  seeing  him. 

He  was  on  his  way  to  paint  some  portraits  of  Exeter 
schoolmasters.  It  was  slowly  wormed  out  of  him  that 
romance  had  visited  his  shores.  A  St.  Louis  woman  was 
motoring  to  New  York.  In  a  street  of  Pittsburgh  a  tire  blew 
out.  As  it  was  raining,  she  got  out  of  the  car  and  went  into 
an  art  store  in  front  of  which  it  had  stopped,  to  wait  for 
repairs.  Her  errand  in  New  York  was  to  choose  a  portrait 
painter.  In  the  art  store  a  portrait  by  Fritz  was  on  exhibi- 
tion. She  decided  that  there  was  no  need  of  going  on  to 

30 


New  York.  That  evening  Fritz  was  called  to  her  hotel.  It 
ended  by  his  going  on  to  St.  Louis  and  painting  portraits 
of  the  whole  family. 

What  his  bread-and-butter  problems  were  I  never  fully 
knew.  I  think  they  were  more  in  what  he  faced  than  in 
what  he  had  to  encounter.  Within  two  or  three  years  after 
he  left  the  Museum  School,  he  was  paying  his  own  way. 
He  lived  with  the  utmost  frugality.  His  studio  was  a  work- 
shop: four  walls  and  a  north  light. 

"  I  keep  it  bare  on  purpose,"  he  confided,  "  to  frighten 
away  loafers." 

It  appeared  that  certain  amiable  slayers  of  their  own 
and  others'  time,  envisaging  a  studio  of  divans,  Russian 
cigarettes,  tea  and  twaddle,  paid  one  visit,  and  only  one. 

His  attitude  toward  money  was  an  island  of  sanity  in  a 
lunatic  ocean.  It  was  no  time  before  he  sensed  the  absurd- 
ity of  attempting  to  measure  creative  work  by  commercial 
values,  and  that  is,  of  course,  the  avenue  by  which  the 
artist-thinker  divines  the  idiotic  husbandry  of  organizing 
society  to  batten  those  who  distribute  and  those  who  own 
by  penalizing  those  who  produce  and  those  who  create. 
Money  he  viewed  as  an  article  neither  to  be  spent  nor  to 
be  hoarded,  but  rather  to  be  reinvested  where  it  would  draw 
intellectual  dividends.  His  one  extravagance  was  to  buy 
his  mind  the  food  it  needed  if  he  had  the  wherewithal  to 
pay  for  it.  "And,"  as  Erasmus  remarks,  "  after  that,  some 
clothes."  The  same  independence  which  had  fortified  him 
against  those  who  had  once  pointed  him  out  as  a  crack- 
brained  youngster  with  the  presumption  to  suppose  he 
could  be  a  great  artist  sustained  him  now  when  he  was 
pointed  out  as  a  promising  portrait  painter  who  was  al- 
ready "  getting  good  money  for  his  work." 

Finding  himself,  as  he  did,  endowed  with  a  creative 
purpose  considerably  at  odds  with  the  structure  of  the 
society  around  him;  put  to  it,  as  he.  was,  to  protect  that 
fledgling  from  the  well-intentioned  but  fatal  meddlings  of 

31 


the  mediocre,  not  a  shadow  of  ill-humor  did  he  allow  to 
cross  his  average  human  intercourse.  He  made  me  think 
of  a  wise  old  cat  who,  having  carefully  hidden  her  kittens 
in  the  hayloft,  presents  a  tolerant  frame  to  the  cuffs  and 
caresses  of  the  children. 

By  the  beginning  of  1916  it  was  clear  to  anyone  who 
knew  him  that  all  he  needed  to  reach  the  summit  was  to 
keep  climbing,  and  this  he  appeared  abundantly  able  and 
determined  to  do. 

VII 

He  was  growing  up.  Shy  he  would  always  be,  but  in  place 
of  his  boyish  self-distrust  had  come  a  quiet  confidence  in 
his  own  powers.  His  mind  was  on  the  watch  for  its  food, 
like  an  eagle  ready  to  pounce.  There  was  an  eager,  vigilant 
look  in  his  eyes  when  one  spoke  of  certain  books  unknown 
to  him :  he  was  questioning  whether  they  would  be  what  he 
wanted.  He  would  pump  me  about  the  content  of  certain 
authors.  I  could  see  him  accepting  and  rejecting.  He  read 
the  poets  as  one  quarrying  marble  for  architectural  designs 
of  his  own.  His  hungry  reading  was  as  different  from  that 
of  the  perfunctory  college  student  as  the  oarsmanship  of 
a  dory  fisherman  on  the  Grand  Banks  is  from  that  of  an 
eight-oared  crew  on  the  placid  Charles:  the  producer  as 
contrasted  with  the  consumer. 

George  Meredith  and  Walt  Whitman  became  two  of 
his  great  companions.  Once  he  told  me  that  he  was  reading 
everything  of  Thomas  Hardy  he  could  lay  his  hands  on. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  He  knows  how  to  set  the  human  figure  against  vast 
backgrounds  of  Nature:  figures  outlined  half  against  a 
heath  and  half  against  sky." 

I  wonder  if  Romain  Rolland  realizes  the  intimacy  of 
the  friendship  which  has  sprung  up  between  Jean- 
Christophe  and  the  youth  of  to-day.  Fritz  and  Christopbe 

32 


took  an  amazing  shine  to  each  other  from  the  start.  It  was 
Christophe  who  led  Fritz  to  read  everything  else  of  Romain 
Rolland  he  could  find,  and  thus  his  steps  were  guided  to 
the  summit  of  that  Mount  of  Vision,  Rolland's  Life  of 
Tolstoy,  whence  he  looked  far  and  wide  into  the  stern 
grandeur  of  that  moral  wilderness  unsubdued  by  man 
through  which  the  heroic  thinker  and  prophet  pushes  on 
alone  ...  To  look  is  to  follow.  He  began  to  devour 
Tolstoy's  works.  The  Kreutzer  Sonata  he  sat  up  half  the 
night  beside  my  fire  to  finish.  Waking  towards  morning  I 
saw  him  scowling  over  it.  He  asked  to  take  the  book  away 
with  him.  Soon  he  was  up  to  his  neck  in  the  dramatists: 
Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Brieux,  Sudermann,  Galsworthy,  Synge, 
Shaw. 

There  was  a  performance  of  Candida  with  Mr.  Milton 
Rosmer  as  the  poet.  They  say  that  a  secret  can  be  told  only 
to  him  who  knows  it  already.  There  is  a  secret  in  two 
tremendous  speeches  at  the  close  of  that  play  which  (as 
the  dramatist  himself  says)  few  but  poets  know: 

Morell:  (alarmed)      Candida:      don't     let 

him  do  anything  rash. 

Candida:  (confident,    smiling    at    Eugene) 

Oh,    there    is    no    fear.     He    has 
learnt   to    live   without   happiness. 

Marchbanks:  I  no  longer  desire  happiness:  life 
is  nobler  than  that.  Parson  James, 
I  give  you  my  happiness  with  both 
hands. 

Those  lines  stung  Fritz  as  the  whip  stings  a  mettled 
horse.  His  flesh  rebelled,  but  the  poet  in  him  leaped  to  the 
truth. 

On  March  20,  1913,  the  colony  at  94  Charles  Street  ad- 
journed to  a  performance  of  Man  and  Superman.  Fritz 
kept  his  room-mate  up  until  two  in  the  morning  discussing 

33 


it.  The  next  night  he  routed  me  out  of  hed  at  ten  and 
quizzed  me  about  it  until  three  in  the  morning. 

He  had  had  his  glimpse  of  the  collision  between  sex  and 
ambition;  between  the  impulse  of  the  woman  to  create 
children  of  flesh  and  blood,  with  the  man  as  adjunct  and 
provider;  and  the  impulse  of  the  man  to  create  children 
of  the  spirit  independently  of  the  woman.  He  was  quick  to 
realize  that  he  had  struck  something  which  he  had  to  settle, 
and  he  was  settling  it.  The  thing  was  deliciously  trans- 
parent. Here  was  a  young  gentleman  tremendously  in 
earnest  about  being  an  artist.  Being  an  artist  he  loved 
beauty.  Hitherto,  in  his  shy  way,  he  had  secretly  been 
rather  tickled  by  the  flutter  which  his  striking  head  created 
in  the  dove  cots  of  pretty  girls.  But  after  March  20,  1913, 
the  tune  changed.  He  was  affable,  delighted  to  make  their 
acquaintance  —  but  on  his  guard.  He  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  letting  sex  thwart  his  ambition. 

"Yes,  but  .  .  .?" 

'Yes,  but  .  .  ."  He  played  the  game.  A  commercial 
society  decrees  that  the  artist  cannot  have  a  livelihood 
until  his  work  is  accepted  at  a  commercial  value.  Pending 
that  acceptance,  if  he  assumes  the  responsibility  of  wife 
and  children  he  also  assumes  the  risk  of  shackling  himself 
to  pot-boiling  work  for  life. 

Society  also  decrees  a  standard  of  prenuptial  chastity 
for  the  male.  Suppose  the  male  happens  to  be  more  inter- 
ested in  art  than  in  domesticity.  He  must  then  ask  himself 
whether  he  shall  abide  by  a  decree  which  bourgeois  society 
promulgates  with  more  emphasis  than  sincerity.  With  his 
eyes  wide  open  to  the  fact  that  the  very  society  which 
promulgates  this  decree  openly  winks  at  its  evasion,  Fritz 
abode  by  it.  A  slightly  sterner  set  to  his  jaw;  a  slightly 
darker  flash  in  his  eye;  a  slightly  grimmer  stoicism  in  the 
grip  on  his  emotions  were  all  that  betrayed  the  battle 
which  had  raged  in  him  between  the  two  creative  forces: 
sex  and  intellect.  He  never  pretended  that  the  battle  was 

34 


i 


won  for  keeps.  The  crust  on  which  he  walked  he  knew  to 
be  thin.  But  it  was  won  for  the  present.  He  well  knew  that 
there  are  no  bargain  days  at  life's  counter:  he  had  come 
there  to  purchase  one  of  the  most  precious  commodities  — 
a  creative  career  —  and  he  was  willing  to  pay  the  fee.  If 
he  found  the  fee  somewhat  high  (and  I  have  reason  to 
know  that  he  did)  he  never  complained.  It  was  his  reward 
to  enjoy  that  supreme  luxury  of  conduct  —  to  be  the  thing 
he  seemed.  He  lived  in  that  kind  of  glass  house  which  is 
not  damaged  by  any  amount  of  stone-throwing,  because 
there  is  nothing  to  hit:  a  glass  house  with  all  the  curtains 
up.  "  Naked  and  unashamed "'  could  have  been  written 
over  the  door  of  his  mind.  Time  and  again  he  quoted  a 
passage  from  Trilby  in  which  Du  Maurier  says  that  mental 
chastity  begins  in  the  artist  when  the  model  drops  her  last 
garment.  He  was  frank  to  add  that  this  was  strictly  true; 
that  in  the  intense  concentration  of  his  mind  on  problems 
of  form  and  color  he  had  found  in  painting  from  the  nude 
no  room  for  images  of  sex  but  on  the  contrary  an  actual 
release  from  the  heats  and  fevers  which  plague  young 
men.  The  remedy  he  proposed  was:  "  Get  rid  of  mystery." 

There  is  a  portrait  painted  at  about  this  time  which  tells 
the  story  of  the  inner  struggle  which  he  was  fighting  and 
winning.  It  is  of  a  young  girl,  about  his  own  age,  with  a 
wondrously  sweet  expression  and  sparkling  eyes.  The  del- 
icacy, the  spirituality  which  shines  through  it  makes  it 
hard  to  believe  that  the  portrait  could  have  been  painted 
by  a  young  man.  Not  a  hint  of  sexuality.  He  later  told  me 
that  the  girl  was  afflicted  with  a  lameness  and  he  told  how 
grateful  he  was  to  her  for  valuing  him  for  his  mind  and 
not  obtruding  sex.  I  doubt  if  he  knew  how  publicly  yet  with 
what  delicacy  he  had  thanked  her. 

There  were  moods  of  him,  as  when  he  stood  silently 
drinking  in  a  landscape,  which  made  me  think  of  that  fine 
old  chant  which  one  hears  in  the  churches: 

"  0  worship  the  Lord  in  the  beauty  of  holiness." 

35 


In  the  emptiness  left  by  his  death  I  came  to  realize  that 
one  of  the  principal  anticipations  of  my  life  had  been 
looking  forward  to  watch,  year  by  year,  the  unfolding  of 
his  mind  and  the  ripening  of  his  powers.  His  talent  had 
long  since  passed  the  stage  at  which  it  was  a  sporting  propo- 
sition —  the  stage  at  which  one  could  chaff  him  about  cash- 
ing in  heavily  some  day  on  a  pair  of  "  early  Demmlers." 

There  was  no  kind  of  doubt  that  he  carried  within  him  the 
creative  "  daimon."  His  very  instincts  betrayed  it.  He  went 
at  a  landscape  the  way  Hugo  Wolf  went  at  a  song:  he  lived 
with  the  poem  before  creating  the  music.  For  the  first  few 
days  in  a  novel  countryside  he  never  thought  of  touching 
brush  to  canvas.  He  walked  around  in  the  scene,  his  every 
sense  alert  to  its  feature  and  color,  to  its  sound  and  smell. 
He  laid  in  wait  for  its  moods.  He  eyed  it  in  every  circum- 
stance of  wind  and  weather,  as  if  it  had  been  a  face  he 
was  preparing  to  paint,  or  a  woman  he  was  preparing  to 
wed.  No  words.  The  quality  he  most  appreciated  in  a  com- 
panion at  such  times  was  silence.  And  it  was  entertain- 
ment enough  to  watch  the  play  of  expression  in  his  face 
as  his  eyes  roamed  meadow,  hill  or  sea  horizon  —  vig- 
ilance, delight,  eagerness,  discriminating  study,  instruc- 
tions to  memory,  brooding  thought  —  his  life  was  a  per- 
petual honeymoon  with  nature  for  his  bride. 

Then  would  come  the  day  and  the  hour  when  he  was 
ready  to  paint.  By  that  time,  in  the  wealth  of  his  materials, 
his  only  study  would  be  not  what  to  put  in  but  what  to 
leave  out.  I  doubt  if  he  had  reached  the  point  of  knowingly 
causing  his  subconscious  to  work  for  him,  but  it  will  be 
apparent  from  the  foregoing  that  he  was  doing  so  uncon- 
sciously. 

He  was  able,  somehow,  to  communicate  his  sense  of  form 
and  color  to  another,  without  resort  to  speech,  or  with  only 

36 


the  fewest  words.  Perhaps  it  was  the  stimulus  of  seeing 
how  much  there  was  for  him  in  the  distant  shining  of  sun- 
light on  winding  waters,  or  a  range  of  low  hills  scrawling 
their  signature  on  the  chill  blue  of  horizon  sky,  which 
taught  others  to  find  the  wonder  and  dignity  in  what  they 
would  once  have  looked  on  as  commonplace.  At  any  rate, 
I  find  myself,  in  all  seasons,  seeing  landscapes  through 
his  eyes  ..."  Now  that  looks  commonplace,  but  it  isn't. 
Fritz  would  have  seen  something  in  these  somber  March- 
brown  meadows  drowned  in  the  freshets  of  spring;  these 
red-budding  birches;  this  delicate  flush  of  pink  in  a  drab 
evening  sky  .   .  ."  And  so  he,  being  dead,  yet  seeth. 

He  was  well  aware,  by  this  time,  that  the  artist  who  is 
not  also  a  thinker  is  a  one-legged  man.  He  accepted  the 
obligation  of  understanding  matters  which,  superficially, 
might  have  seemed  far  outside  his  province.  It  was  in  1915 
that  he  encountered  Tolstoy's  great  work  on  Christian 
anarchism,  The  Kingdom  of  God  Is  Within  You.  It  revo- 
lutionized his  view  of  life.  It  convinced  him  of  the  futility 
of  violence  as  a  method  of  settling  disputes,  personal  or 
national.  And  the  shock  of  having  to  transvalue  all  the  ac- 
cepted values,  of  having,  in  a  world  organized  on  the  basis 
of  fear,  to  conceive  of  a  world  organized  on  the  basis  of 
good  will,  made  him  a  thinker  in  his  own  right. 

Next  he  encountered  Romain  Rolland's  Life  of  Michael 
Angelo.  Far  from  being  chilled  by  the  classic  austerity  of 
that  work,  it  warmed  him.  In  it  he  found  the  food  he  had 
been  seeking.  He  made  it  a  part  of  him.  It  confirmed,  with 
revelations  of  the  laws  of  mental  conduct  which  governed 
that  giant  of  the  Renaissance,  principles  which  this  young 
man  had  been  formulating  and  practising  by  the  naked  in- 
stinct of  his  will  to  create.  Things  which  he  had  been  doing 
or  forbearing  to  do,  he  could  not  have  told  you  why,  here 
received  their  sanction  or  veto  in  the  experience  of  a  genius. 

Little  as  was  said  about  this  between  us,  it  was  easy  to 
see  how  profoundly  this  discovery  of  the  similarity  be- 


37 


tween  his  own  mental  processes  and  those  of  a  great  master 
had  strengthened  his  confidence  in  himself.  Michael  Angelo 
was  added  to  the  list  of  his  Great  Companions. 

He  had  another.  Rembrandt. 

There  was  a  gallery  in  London,  which  one  I  forget,  which 
he  visited  day  after  day. 

"  In  the  first  room  you  entered,"  said  he,  "  was  a  por- 
trait of  an  old  woman  by  Rembrandt,  painted  in  his  last 
period.  Time  after  time  I  went  there  intending  to  see  the 
rest  of  the  gallery.  Sometimes  I  even  tried  a  room  or  two. 
What  was  the  use?  I  went  back  to  that  portrait.  It  seemed 
like  a  waste  of  time  to  look  at  the  other  pictures.  Every- 
thing they  said  —  if  they  said  anything  —  was  said  in  that 
portrait  by  Rembrandt  and  said  better.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
if  the  whole  history  of  humanity  were  concentrated  in  that 
old  woman's  face  .  .  .  Finally  I  surrendered  and  went 
only  to  see  that." 


There  is  a  chastity  of  the  mind,  just  as  there  is  a  chastity 
of  the  body.  There  are  certain  creative  processes  which  a 
sincere  thinker  would  no  more  reveal  to  casual  eyes  than 
he  would  strip  in  a  public  place.  A  rule  of  mental  chastity: 
Do  not  hold  promiscuous  mental  intercourse.  The  shallow 
would  intrude  into  these  austere  places  like  picnickers  in  a 
sanctuary,  littering  it  with  their  luncheon  refuse.  Let  the 
artist  raise  his  thought-stained  face  from  his  toil,  smiling 
but  mute. 

Fritz  guarded  his  secrets  well.  A  sudden  flash  of  ar- 
rested eye,  a  certain  silent  intentness  of  gaze,  an  interest 
in  a  subject  which  would  seem  altogether  out  of  proportion 
to  its  importance,  a  look  of  perpetual  expectancy  were  all 
that  betrayed  his  search.  He  was  learning,  learning,  learn- 
ing: every  hour,  every  minute.  Sometimes  for  days  together 

38 


he  would  seem  dormant  —  practical  people  would  have 
said  loafing  —  lazily  absorbing  impressions  as  it  had  been 
through  his  pores.  Again  he  seemed  to  devour  scenery, 
faces,  books,  ideas  with  an  appetite  that  was  insatiable. 

A  young  sculptor,  meeting  Fritz,  observed  to  me  pri- 
vately, 

'What  an  unromantic  exterior  for  an  artist!" 

The  joke  was  too  good  to  tell  Fritz  for,  all  inno- 
cently on  the  sculptor's  part,  it  revealed  a  secret  which 
I  was  not  supposed  to  know:  that  Fritz  instinctively  cul- 
tivated this  young-man-just-out-of-college-and-doing-well- 
in-business  exterior  as  a  high  board  fence  behind  which, 
free  from  intrusion,  to  train  the  muscles  of  his  mind  and 
cultivate  the  golden  orchards  of  his  soul. 

He  had  to.  For  once  he  had  mastered  the  tools  of  his 
trade  there  was  absolutely  no  one  to  teach  him  the  things 
he  most  needed  to  know.  He  must  go  it  alone.  He  knew  it. 
And  he  was  going.  That  was  the  secret  of  the  watchful, 
hungry  look  of  him  —  the  look  of  one  aware  of  a  ravenous 
appetite  and  never  sure  of  his  next  meal.  That  was  the 
secret  of  his  inarticulate  gratitude  to  anyone  who  happened 
to  be  able  to  put  him  in  the  way  of  finding  the  food  his 
spirit  craved.  He  discovered  that  the  composers  knew  more 
about  painting  than  most  painters,  and  he  used  to  turn  up 
at  Symphony  concerts  or  at  the  opera  with  the  look  of  a 
small  boy  fresh  from  a  session  with  the  jam  pot  behind 
the  pantry  door.  He  wasn't  saying  anything,  but  you  knew 
that  he'd  got  it.  He  made  a  bee-line  for  Beethoven  and 
Wagner.  He  came  away  after  a  performance  of  Tristan 
most  divinely  drunk  on  the  strongest  wine  in  music. 

For  the  method  of  these  composers  was  the  method  which 
he  had  chosen  for  himself  unconsciously.  He  was  not  satis- 
fied to  write  a  thin  melody.  He  was  determined  to  teach  his 
brush  the  rich  and  complicated  instrumentation  of  an  or- 
chestral score.  Not  this  face  or  that  landscape  was  what  he 
planned  to  put  on  canvas,  but  the  abundance  of  life  which 

39 


he  had  absorbed  through  every  avenue  of  sense.  Not  a 
violin  alone,  nothing  less  than  the  full  orchestra  would  con- 
tent him. 

I  ask  myself  whether  I  shall  ever  see  anything  more  in- 
spiriting than  the  quiet,  secret  quest  of  this  young  man  for 
an  excellence  and  a  mastery  not  only  unrecognized  and 
unrewarded  by  the  social  order  in  which  he  lived,  but  not 
even  comprehended.  This  is  the  courage  of  the  creative 
mind:  that  it  is  prepared  to  meet  alike  its  triumph  or  its 
defeat  in  an  utter  moral  solitude.  Stories  of  the  physical 
courage  which  Fritz  displayed  on  the  field  of  battle  were 
to  come  later.  .  .  .  Which  is  likely  to  advance  the  Kingdom 
of  Heaven  on  earth  more  speedily  —  the  courage  of  the 
body,  to  destroy;  or  the  courage  of  the  mind,  to  create? 

Is  all  this  too  eulogistic?  "  Oh,  come!  He  must  have  had 
faults,  weaknesses,  common  spots."  ...  I  suppose  so. 
To  tell  the  truth  I  never  noticed  them.  There  was  a  trait, 
as  I  first  remember  him,  of  too  ready  assent  to  the  opinions 
of  others  which  it  amused  me  to  attribute  to  peasant  an- 
cestry; but,  after  all,  that  conformity  was  only  outward 
and  it  soon  disappeared.  In  matters  really  vital  to  him  his 
will  was  granite  and  he  commanded  a  silence  which  could 
vociferate  "Hands  off!" 

His  very  inarticulate  tongue  gave  promise  of  greatness. 
One  saw  all  this  life-stuff  entering  into  him.  He  could 
never  express  it  in  speech.  It  was  a  necessity  of  his  being 
to  express  it  somehow.  It  would  have  to  come  out  on 
canvas. 

Oh,  once  in  a  great  while  the  curtain  would  be  dropped. 
Some  lucky  turn  of  conversation  would  relax  the  inhibi- 
tions and  liberate  his  tongue.  Then  for  a  few  minutes,  per- 
haps for  an  hour,  one  would  be  shown  the  treasure  house 
within.  What  shall  I  say  of  those  glimpses?  There  are 
times  to  walk  fearfully  lest  one  smash  something  which 
cannot  be  replaced,  and  these  occasions  were  of  them. 
Treasures  not  of  this  world;  possessions  which  honored 

40 


the  possessor  by  being  held  in  honor;  bins  heaped,  as  it 
had  been,  with  jewels  and  brocades;  others  which  gaped 
with  a  sacrificial  emptiness;  spaces  eked  out  with  the 
heroic  poverty  of  one  dedicated  to  the  monasticism  of  a 
creative  career. 

Enough.  ...  I  saw  —  what  I  saw. 


And  withal  he  was  half  pagan.  The  physical  gratifica- 
tion with  which  he  drank  in  the  beauty  of  the  world  re- 
minded me  of  that  statuette  by  Roderick  Hudson,  Al^os 
("Thirst")  —  a  boy,  feet  planted  wide  apart,  head  thrown 
back,  slaking  his  throat  out  of  a  gourd  held  in  both  hands. 
Fritz  was  that  boy.  The  ugliness  of  modern  clothes  dis- 
gusted him.  He  was  alert  for  chances  to  take  off  his  own: 
impromptu  baths  in  cold  brooks  on  walking  trips,  or  long 
days  of  summer  sunshine  on  lonely  stretches  of  sea  beach 
with  gleaming  yellow  sands.  There  was  some  place  among 
the  mountains  of  West  Virginia  where  he  used  to  go: 
ledges  of  flat  rock  above  a  rushing  river.  All  day  long  they 
gathered  warmth  from  the  sun,  retaining  it  well  into  the 
night.  When  the  moon  had  risen  he  loved  to  steal  away 
for  a  plunge  in  the  river,  then  lie  out  naked  in  the  moon- 
light on  these  great  slabs  of  warm  rock,  alone  with  the 
magic  night. 


VIII 

In  May,  1917,  he  came  to  Boston  from  Pittsburgh.  I 
was  in  Parkersburg,  West  Virginia.  He  came  there. 

Conscription  impended.  Under  his  composure  the  strug- 
gle was  going  on.  Tolstoy  had  converted  him.  What  was  he 
to  do? 

41 


i 


"If  there  were  no  one  but  myself  to  consider  .  .  .  ," 
said  he,  "  But  the  suffering  which  you  would  have  no  hesi- 
tation in  imposing  on  yourself  you  hesitate  to  impose  on 
those  dearer  to  you  than  yourself." 

He  was  thrilled  by  the  nonresistance  of  the  still-young 
Russian  revolution: 

"Wonderful  people,  liberated  by  their  refusal  to  kill! 
They  fold  their  arms  and  say  '  Shoot!'  The  Cossacks  refuse 
to  shoot  them.  And  a  despotism,  centuries  old,  comes 
tumbling  down.  It  proves  everything  that  Tolstoy  has  said." 

For  three  days,  tramping  about  the  scrubby  country- 
side, rambling  along  the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  rowing  up  the 
swift,  muddy  current  of  the  Kanawah,  the  dilemma  of  a 
man  born  to  create  and  commandeered  to  destroy  was 
threshed  out.  Never  before  had  he  spoken  so  freely.  The 
economic  causes  of  the  trouble  he  understood  fairly  well, 
but  it  was  startling  with  what  a  seeing  eye  he  pierced  the 
illusions  which  beset  that  time.  By  that  faculty  of  divina- 
tion peculiar  to  the  artist's  mind  he  reached,  at  one  leap, 
conclusions  which  the  thinker  only  arrives  at  after  labori- 
ous effort.  And  he  was  a  young  man  without  an  illusion 
left,  steadfastly  looking  the  ugliest  facts  of  our  social  order 
in  the  face. 

On  the  last  evening  of  his  stay  we  were  standing  on  the 
steel  spider  web  of  a  suspension  bridge  which  spans  the 
Ohio,  watching  a  sunset  unfurl  its  banners  of  blood  and 
fire. 

All  day  there  had  been  thunder  and  rain,  and  eastward 
behind  the  towers  and  spires  of  the  city  skyline  still  hung 
the  retreating  clouds,  sullen  and  dark.  Fritz  pointed  to 
where,  against  that  gloomy  cloud  bank,  high  above  the 
city  and  gilded  red  from  the  setting  sun,  rose  two  symbols: 
one  on  the  tip  of  a  spire,  the  other  on  the  staff  atop  a  tower: 
cross  and  flag. 

"  Church,"  said  he  grimly,  "  and  State." 

42 


The  next  day  he  returned  to  Pittsburgh  to  register  for 
the  draft. 


July  found  me  back  in  New  England  at  a  farm  on  the 
banks  of  the  Merrimac  in  West  Newbury.  Returning  one 
noon  from  an  errand  up  the  hills  to  the  village  I  was  hailed 
by  the  children  with  a  shout: 

"A  friend  of  yours  is  here." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  He  told  us  his  name  but  we've  forgotten  it." 

"What  does  he  look  like?" 

Descriptions  varied: 

"  He's  awfully  strong,"  said  the  boy. 

"He  has  shiny  black  hair  and  black  eyes,"  said  the 
littlest  girl. 

"  He  wears  his  coat  off  and  his  sleeves  rolled  up,"  said 
the  biggest  little  girl,  and  she  added,  with  the  spontaneous 
poetry  of  childhood,  "And  his  hands  are  beeootiful!" 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  Down  by  the  river." 

Under  the  maples,  lying  in  the  tall  grass  at  the  foot  of  a 
steep  bank  which  sloped  to  the  stream,  with  children 
clambering  all  over  him,  was  Fritz.  He  scrambled  to  his 
feet  and  came  forward  putting  out  his  hand  with  that 
awkwardness  of  meeting  after  an  absence  which  he  never 
quite  outgrew,  but  his  eyes  snapped  with  enjoyment  at  my 
astonishment. 

It  appeared  that  he  had  been  painting  some  one  in 
a  Massachusetts  mill  city  and  had  dashed  up  here  between- 
whiles. 

There  is  a  tiny  hut  perched  like  a  brown  owl  on  a  knoll 
in  a  grove  of  hickories  beside  the  river.  To  this  hermitage 
we  retired   and  he   related   the  news  of  the   intellectual 

43 


underworld  in  Pittsburgh.  Roger  Baldwin  had  been  there, 
much  to  his  comfort.  A  friend  whose  portrait  he  had  been 
painting,  aware  that  the  mildest  radicalism  had  now  be- 
come high  treason,  had  remarked  by  way  of  chaffing  him, 
"  I  hope  they  give  you  a  cell  with  a  north  light." 
He  unburdened  with  a  tone  of  sheer  physical  relief: 
"  This  frantic  enthusiasm  for  '  democracy,' '    said  he, 
"on  the  part  of  people  who  have  spent  their  whole  lives 
combating  it!" 

He  sat  relaxed  in  a  deep  chair,  hands  hanging  limp  on 
its  arms  —  hands  large,  strongly  muscled,  marked  with 
heavy  veins,  the  fingers  full-fleshed  at  their  tips,  the  skin 
bronzed  by  the  sun. 

Tatters  of  sunlight,  reflected  from  the  wavelets  of  the 
river  obliquely  up  underneath  the  hickory  boughs,  flickered 
on  the  ceiling  and  walls  of  the  hut. 

Disillusioned  he  was,  but  not  cynical.  His  humor  was  a 
bath  to  a  sore  spirit.  He  kindled,  in  the  moral  solitude  of 
that  hour,  a  little  fire  of  faith  and  hope.  It  struck  me  anew, 
eyeing  him  as  he  sat  there,  what  a  beautiful  creature  he 
was,  inside  and  out. 

There  was  in  him,  too,  an  odd  streak  of  stoicism.  Keen 
as  he  was  for  "  the  eats,"  he  delighted  in  little  acts  of  self- 
discipline.  That  afternoon,  it  being  necessary  for  me  to  try 
for  a  nap,  he  cleared  out  to  gather  views  of  river  and 
woods.  An  hour  later  I  discovered  this  young  Spartan, 
hands  clasped  behind  head,  spine  stretched  along  the  plank 
flooring  of  the  narrow  ledge  in  front  of  the  hut,  sleeping 
quietly.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  he  made  himself  everlastingly  solid  with 
the  people  at  the  farm  by  spending  the  whole  morning  fit- 
ting screens  to  the  multitudinous  doors  and  windows  of 
their  ark  of  a  house.  Everyone  wanted  Fritz  to  stay  a 
month. 

At  nine  that  evening  he  left.  As  we  trudged  over  the 

44 


road  in  the  warm  darkness  of  the  summer  night,  he  talked 
soberly  of  the  dubious  future. 


He  was  not  called  until  the  following  April,  1918.  Twice 
that  winter  he  came  to  Boston.  Number  94  Charles  Street 
had  been  dismantled.  But  the  third-floor-back  on  Pinckney 
Street  received  him  with  an  extra  cot  for  bivouac. 

.  .  .  This  should  have  been  the  longest  chapter  of  all, 
and  the  best.  I  find  that  I  cannot  write  it. 


»» 


Only  a  postscript.  I  asked  him  for  a  picture  of  himself. 
'  What  do  you  want,"  he  inquired,  "  a  painting?" 

My  ideas  had  been  far  more  modest: 
'  Beggars  should  not  be  choosers.  I  will  take  what  I  can 
get:  painting,  photograph,  snap-shot:   and  be  thankful." 

"What  size  would  you  like?" 

"  Small  enough  so  that  it  can  go  wherever  I  go. 

He  made  no  promises.  His  way  was  to  wait  until  the 
time  came  and  then  let  the  performance  speak. 

Not  three  weeks  later  it  came :  a  sketch  in  oils,  head  and 
shoulders,  ten  inches  by  twelve,  not  at  all  the  cold  greenish 
grays  I  had  anticipated  from  his  habitual  attitude  of  self- 
effacement,  but  on  the  contrary  a  scheme  of  rich  golden 
browns.  He  has  painted  his  own  portrait  with  the  same 
reticence  which  looks  out  of  its  eyes.  Strangers  seeing  it 
remark, 

"What  a  striking  face!" 

His  friends  view  it  and  say, 

"He  was  much  finer  looking  than  that." 

45 


IX 

The  rest  is  seen  dimly,  as  through  a  mist.  His  voice  is 
heard,  distinct  and  clear,  but  as  from  a  great  distance. 

To  Ralph  Heard  he  writes  from  Camp  Lee,  Virginia: 

;'  I  am  eating,  sleeping,  and  drilling  with  physical 
enthusiasm,"  and  later,  "Tell  the  fellows  that  the  dust  is 
gathering  on  my  palette." 

A  letter  to  me  in  May  tells  of  taking  his  pipe  at  the  day's 
end  and  strolling  into  the  woods  of  the  camp  to  be  alone 
with  the  song  of  birds  and  tints  of  sunset.  Late  in  July 
came  a  letter  from  France  describing  a  march  "between 
gleam  of  gold  in  the  west  and  a  rising  full  moon  in  the 
east,  .  .  .  aeroplanes  in  action  overhead  and  cannonading 
over  the  hills  to  the  east."  Then  occurs  this: 

14  I  am  little  different  from  as  you  know  me,  even 
though  now  in  a  machine  gun  company:  —  Curious 
irony.  — 

And  this: 

"  Continue  your  work  .  .  .  Other  victories  are  tran- 
sient." 

And  this  was  his  farewell: 

"We  have  seen  great  visions  and  dreamed  splendid 
dreams.  And  the  faith  you  have  in  me,  —  which  I  prize 
so  desperately, —  I  have  in  you,  no  matter  where  each  of 
us  may  be  headed.  We  will  live  the  best  we  can  —  that, 
through  our  friendship,  is  all  we  ask  of  each  other." 


On  January  23,  1919,  one  of  his  brothers  writes  from 
Le  Mans,  France: 

"  St.  Remis  du  Plain  is  the  name  of  the  little  town  where 
Fred's  company  was  billeted.  It  is  perched  on  the  top  of  a 
hill  in  the  middle  of  a  vast  plain  and  was  visible  for  a  long 
time  as  I  headed  towards  it.  This  was  the  trip  I  had  planned 

46 


long  ago,  and  pictured  a  happy  meeting;  however,  it  was 
decreed  otherwise.  Passing  up  the  narrow  street  I  saw 
'Headquarters,  136  M.  G.  Bn.'  written  on  the  door  of  an 
old  stone  house.  The  orderly  room  was  full  of  officers.  I 
inquired  for  Lieut.  Rew,  the  one  who  had  previously  writ- 
ten to  me,  and  introduced  myself  as  Fred's  brother.  The 
officer  who  was  dictating  stopped  work,  came  over  and 
shook  hands  with  me.  The  captain  commanding  the  bat- 
talion came  from  behind  the  table,  greeted  me  and  offered 
a  word  of  sympathy.  Soon  all  the  officers  were  grouped 
about  me  and  I  saw  that  Fred  was  considered  one  of  their 
number.  The  captain  said,  '  He  was  the  best  sergeant  I 
ever  had.'  They  invited  me  to  mess  with  them,  and  Lieut. 
Rew  said  I  was  to  bunk  with  him,  '  for  my  men  have 
cooties,'  but  I  saw  this  was  all  done  so  that  they  might 
have  a  chance  to  speak  of  Fred.  One  of  the  sergeants  told 
me  that  when  the  news  came,  the  officers  were  even  more 
broken  up  about  it  than  the  men. 

"  I  was  introduced  to  the  noncoms  with  whom  Fred 
seems  to  have  been  a  favorite.  In  the  evening,  as  we  sat 
around  an  open  fireplace,  I  asked  if  Fred  had  had  a 
'  buddy.'  The  sergeant  with  whom  Fred  used  to  sleep  said, 
'  No.  He  was  everybody's  friend.' 

"  As  I  was  walking  up  to  the  kitchen,  a  private  stepped 
out  of  the  mess  line  and  came  up  to  me  saying  he  knew 
me  through  my  resemblance  to  Fred.  Soon  the  mess  line 
was  demoralized  and  I  was  the  center  of  a  lively  mass  all 
talking  at  once  and  I  could  easily  see  why  the  captain  rec- 
ommended him  so  highly  as  a  sergeant.  — '  He  never  said 
a  harsh  word,'  — '  He  was  always  cheerful  and  never 
kicked,' — 'When  we  complained  about  the  feed  or  any- 
thing, he  said  it  would  be  better  later.'  They  talked  so  long 
that  at  last  the  cook  asked  me  if  I  would  not  please  eat  so 
that  they  would  eat  and  let  him  get  through. 

"The  division  left  Camp  Lee,  June  21,  1918,  and  sailed 

47 


from  Newport  News  on  the  Italian  transport  Caserta.  It 
was  a  dirty  boat,  the  feed  rotten,  and  the  trip  rough.  Every- 
body was  disgusted.  Fred  was  about  the  only  one  of  the 
company  who  never  missed  a  meal.  A  private  told  me  that 
he  and  Fred  were  standing  at  the  rail  in  the  bow  of  the 
ship  one  night  talking  about  a  number  of  things.  This  fel- 
low voiced  the  sentiment  of  most  of  the  company  when  he 
said  he  only  wanted  to  make  one  more  ocean  trip  and  that 
was  in  the  reverse  direction.  Fred  looked  far  out  across 
the  water  and  remarked :  '  I  could  stand  a  few  more.' 

"They  landed  at  Brest  on  July  5  and  entrained  at  once 
for  Souville.  They  used  the  French  type  of  compartment 
cars  where  with  ten  men  and  full  equipment  there  wasn't 
much  room  to  move  about.  Fred  was  in  charge  of  his  com- 
partment and,  with  his  usual  ingenuity,  devised  means  of 
disposing  of  the  equipment  to  best  advantage  for  their 
comfort.  He  also  carefully  arranged  the  daily  menu  con- 
sisting of  bread,  corned  beef,  tomatoes,  beans,  and  jam. 
He  did  all  this  in  such  a  serio-comic  way  that  the  fellows 
are  still  laughing  over  the  memories  of  the  trip. 

;'  On  September  20  the  division  led  the  drive  into  the 
Argonne  forest.  This  is  reputed  to  have  been  the  hardest 
battle  of  the  war  in  respect  to  the  Germans'  shell  fire  and 
the  suffering  caused  by  the  rainy  weather  and  lack  of 
shelter.  Through  it  all  there  was  not  a  healthier  nor  more 
cheerful  man  than  Fred.  Recognized  by  the  commanding 
officer  as  having  'the  coolest  head  in  the  company  and 
afraid  of  nothing '  he  was  made  a  sergeant  after  this  battle 
over  the  heads  of  some  old  National  Guardsmen ;  but  there 
was  not  a  murmur  —  all  were  satisfied.  When  they  came 
out  of  the  woods  he  helped  the  doctor  with  the  wounded 
(he  seems  to  have  helped  everywhere,  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  captain's  private  office).  After  they  had  all  been  at- 
tended to,  he  asked  the  doctor  to  look  him  over.  He  had 
received  three  flesh  wounds  in  shoulder  and  arm.  He  picked 
out  the  pieces  of  shrapnel  himself  and  had  the  doctor 

48 


bandage  him.  After  which  he  went  about  his  work  as  usual. 
"  October  10  found  the  company  in  the  St.  Mihiel  sec- 
tor, and  on  October  22  it  moved  into  Belgium.  All  this 
meant  miles  of  weary  hiking  under  a  full  pack;  but  Fred 
remained  the  same  cheerful  fellow  as  ever.  He  amused  the 
whole  company  with  his  doings.  He  found  an  old  hair- 
clipper among  some  salvage  and  immediately  opened  a 
barber  shop  where  lieutenants  as  well  as  privates  got  their 
hair  cut.  Another  thing  that  I  recognized  as  characteristic 
were  the  remarks  pertaining  to  his  appetite.  He  never  lost 
it.  He  was  known  to  have  'eats'  on  his  person  all  the 
time.  He  had  a  special  knack  of  hunting  out  farm  houses, 
engaging  madame  in  conversation,  and  coming  away  with 
bread,  eggs,  or  cheese  in  his  knapsack.  Occasionally  he 
did  some  sketching  and  his  letters  were  a  joy  to  the  lieuten- 
ant who  censored  them  because  of  the  excellent  descrip- 
tions they  contained  .  .  . 

'The  company  went  over  the  top  early  in  the  morning 
of  October  31.  Fred  was  wounded  in  the  left  side  by  a 
piece  of  high  explosive  shell  at  about  5:30  a.m.  It  was 
before  daylight  and  few  knew  he  had  been  hit.  When  they 
did  hear  it,  they  were  far  in  advance  and  Fred  had  been 
carried  to  Evacuation  Hospital  Number  Five,  at  Staden, 
Belgium.  He  died  there  on  November  2.  One  of  the  boys 
who  helped  carry  him  to  the  rear  says  that  he  was  fully 
conscious  despite  the  serious  nature  of  his  wound,  and  tells 
of  how  he  directed  them  what  to  do  —  how  he  told  them 
to  leave  him  when  the  shells  fell  too  fast  (which  they 
wouldn't  do)  —  of  how  they  left  him,  quite  himself,  at  the 
first-aid  station  .   .   . 

14  He  was  never  referred  to  as  a  bully  or  even  as  a 
fighter  —  he  was  spared  the  grewsome  experience  of  hand- 
to-hand  fighting,  for  from  the  first  the  Germans  were  in 
full  flight;  but  he  was  remembered  for  his  cheerfulness, 
his  kindness  toward  others  and  especially  for  his  lack  of 
harsh  words.  His  favorite  text  from  the  Bible  was  that 

49 


part  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  known  as  the  beatitudes, 
and  he  often  wondered  why  ministers  did  not  preach  on  it 
more.  He  constantly  spoke  of  this  to  the  men.  (The  italics 
are  not  in  the  original.) 

"  His  fire  has  gone  out,  but  he  left  a  glow  in  the  hearts 
of  these  men  which  will  never  go  out." 


And  now  it  is  time  that  a  few  questions  be  asked,  simple 
and  direct.  It  is  due  him.  ,--~-~— ^-^ -s—--^l_  ' 

Why  is  it  that  when  he  set  himself  to  create  he 


id  to 

contend  against  that  dead-weight  of  indifference  if  not 
the  active  hostility  of  organized  society  recorded  in  these 
pages;  but  when  he  was  commandeered  to  destroy,  that 
society  clothed  him,  fed  him,  sheltered  him,  trained  him, 
(transported  him,  paid  him,  nursed  him,  and  buried  him? 

It  is  well  that  we  should  know  what  has  been  squand- 
ered. He  that  might  have  ennobled  generations  of  men 
with  his  great  visions  and  his  splendid  dreams  is  mingling 
his  clay  with  the  soil  of  Belgium.  He  had  the  seeds  of 
genius.  Capitalism  made  him  a  machine  gunner. 

Is  this  the  best  we  can  find  for  our  artists  to  do?  Is  it 
any  wonder  that  the  creative  minds  of  to-day  are  finding 
themselves  driven  to  social  revolution  as  their  art-form? 

In  the  brown-owl  hut  beside  the  Merrimac  that  summer 
day  in  1917  he  remarked  in  a  tone  of  indulgent  irony: 

'The  'military  experts'  have  found  a  nice,  polite  term 
for  men  killed  or  too  badly  maimed  to  fight  any  more." 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

" '  Wastage.' " 


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51 


VISITATION 

Here,  at  the  end,  let  those  measures  of  the  Ninth  Sym- 
phony sound:  no  dirge;  but  a  paean  of  joy.  For  in  that 
choral  ecstasy  of  Beethoven's  hymn  to  human  brotherhood 
speaks  the  whole  meaning  and  purpose  of  the  life  that  was. 

Why  have  I  detained  you  for  a  tale  so  plain?  What  was 
he  but  an  obscure  young  painter,  thirty  years  old,  with 
his  way  to  make?  Why  should  I  point  him  out  to  you 
among  the  millions?  Because  he  was  my  friend?  No. 
Because  he  is  yours.  Because  I  thought  I  saw  in  him  the 
seeds  of  greatness?  No.  Because  the  seeds  of  greatness 
which  were  in  him  are  in  you;  and  he  shall  make  you  see 
them. 

I  give  him  to  you  young  men  to  be  your  friend,  loyal 
and  high-minded.  I  give  him  to  you  young  women  to  be 
your  lover,  clean  of  body  and  of  soul.  He  will  be  worthy 
of  your  friendship  and  of  your  love,  and  you  shall  be 
worthy  of  his  in  return. 

I  give  him  to  you  in  all  the  beauty  of  his  youth  and  he 
shall  never  grow  old,  but  he  shall  himself  become  one  of 
the  heroic  friends,  one  of  the  great  companions.  I  give  you 
his  soul  to  carry  in  your  own,  a  life  within  a  life.  Through 
his  eyes  you  may  see  the  wonder  and  glory  of  the  beautiful 
world  which  he  saw  so  joyously.  Let  his  generous  heart 
beat  through  yours  his  passion  for  an  ideal  society  and  a 
better  time  than  ours. 

He  is  to  be  immortal.  And  it  is  you  who  must  make  him 
so.  Let  him  kindle  in  your  hearts  a  fire  which  will  not  go 
out.  He  that  would  have  made  great  canvases  glow  with 
the  might  of  his  spirit  and  the  splendor  of  his  imagination 
shall  not  now  live  by  art  alone,  but  by  the  living  deeds 
of  you.  You  shall  be  his  masterpieces.  You,  immortal 
youth,  shall  be  his  immortality. 

53 


Away  from  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  day,  when  the  loud 
world  crowds  and  clamors,  he  shall  make  for  you,  all  in  a 
dim,  cool  chamber  of  your  souls,  a  sanctuary  —  a  little 
space  of  sacred  friendship  —  where  you  may  enter  and, 
closing  the  door,  renew  your  vows. 

You  may  have  him  to  stand  beside  you  in  hours  of  tri- 
umph, and  in  hours  of  disaster;  steadier  of  your  aim,  sus- 
tainer  of  your  courage. 

Sit  in  the  twilight  with  folded  hands  and  he  shall  speak 
to  you.  When  moonbeams  pour  their  silent  music  into  your 
chamber  at  dead  of  night  and  your  sight  rejoices  in  them, 
it  is  he.  Hearken  to  the  beat  of  surf  along  a  lonely  shore; 
to  the  song  of  the  hermit  thrush  in  dense  thickets;  to  the 
whisper  of  the  night  wind  among  the  leaves:  "It  is  he!" 
Kindle  to  the  charm  and  mystery  of  a  face  in  the  crowd, 
and  "It  is  he!"  Thrill  at  the  return  of  many-blossomed 
spring,  at  the  strength  of  men,  at  the  grace  of  women,  and 
your  joy  shall  be  his  joy.  In  every  visitation  to  you  of 
the  truth  that  not  by  hate,  not  by  blows,  but  only  by  the 
love  of  the  human  heart  can  the  world  be  won  from  its 
evil,  he  shall  live,  he  shall  live  again.  And  the  color  and 
rhythm  of  life,  the  joy  of  begetting  which  he  never  knew, 
the  joy  of  creating  which  he  knew  so  abundantly,  when  it 
is  yours  shall  be  his  also.  And  so  all  that  is  highest  and 
best  in  you,  all  that  inspired  him  and  that  he  inspired, 
shall  be  the  works  of  art  by  which  he  is  remembered. 

Immortal  youth,  let  him  be  comrade  and  friend  to  you 
as  he  was  to  me;  let  him  live  forever  in  your  young  hearts, 
himself  forever  young,  bathed  in  the  glory  of  eternal  dawn. 


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